A gate

With her winter walked, its long flake down
around her heaving, not so much as to hinder
her step, or make her one to leaving, though
enough to find her deliberate where she was,
while dusk, like a tired truth, crept.

Already she could taste maple in the chimneys,
distant as they seemed. She thought of home,
her worn slippers testing hardwoods, and her
fires soft tantrum.

She arrived at an iron gate serving nothing
beyond it, and having no design to say what
was in or what was out, only left to swing
by its own accord, and could not for the fat
of its snow see its age.

There was a path that was not a path at all,
only beyond the gate a wood that long ago
made eager crossing its boughs.

Her home was well beyond the hills,
the thought of night was daunting,
and she would save this way for spring,
and spend the winter wanting.
Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades

Vote for this poem

Please Comment On This Poem

poetic2984		poet5170	poetry2071	dreamweaver	reedster	View All Poets
	Newest Item: This problem It seems that all of the worlds nations, have no answer To those many challe ... More Added: 2024-04-18 My Poetry List PoetryPoem.com Get a Free Site Blogs Stories Premium Sites