Somewhere a door
is hinging—open and
less open and not
at all open and open.
All day I feel it.
All day, I know
there is not a thing
I can do about that swinging
except notice how the light
changes, notice how soft
the breeze, and how cold,
notice how the urge
to do something about
that door rises and
and passes, notice
how the sun breaks through.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Open. Closed. Half-opened. Half-closed.
Whatever you do, don’t come unhinged.
Where the poem leaps across at “except notice how the light / changes…” to the other, wider swingings of light and breeze and temperatures, that is where you have transcended the hinge — and I must say that word “hinging” is hung on this poem very nicely.
notice..notice…notice….
-from Emily Dickinson:
The Soul should always stand ajar
That if the Heaven inquire
He will not be obliged to wait
Or shy of troubling Her
Depart, before the Host have slid
The Bolt unto the Door —
To search for the accomplished Guest,
Her Visitor, no more —
Oh!
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