Every chamber has a door.
Somewhere, even hers. Even mine.
They lean with the warping of frames
over time, veins and arteries of coming
and going,
directing traffic in or out.
This is why a dead tree shapes the stoutest
panel. Or name it shield - it suits as well.
Once fitted, they will not outgrow us.
Nor, in death, feel in our place,
while turning bad weather,
of both strangers and indifference
aside.
The work is never in seeking a key
nor entering uninvited, as though you owned
the halls beyond.
Just camp on the doorstep awhile, and wait for the clink of keys
inside.
Or, if you find wood has more patience
than you,
knock twice
with words spent on honest paper.
Honorable winner
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