The Lock

The Lock


You can hear creaks now and again
Especially when the wind blows hard
And rain pelts the roof
Both looking to find some way in, perhaps
I know well the sound of the pipes
Especially in the cold of winter
When the sheets can’t do the job
That the water veins do best
Special oils and paints
Sculptured rock along the greater wall
Moldings like ribbons in a child’s hair
Polished knobs and handles
Special rugs to adorn its hardwood floor
Yellow light recessed to not intrude
And as to bid anyone inside a warm welcome
The fireplace where the heart might rest a beat

Early mornings and late nights
Song and food heaped on gathering after gathering
Scented oils sailing through its doors
Giving each room a sacred blessing
Holding all the grief a family might find
In the decades beneath its roof
Holding better the love and sustaining
And the mutual care one held for the other

To not be closed upon itself
Windows and glass doors
Looking out at stately trees
Where the druids hide in the black oaks

But it is time to go
The last light dims to the touch
The key turns in the lock
The lock separates us forever