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.