At the Close of Day

Toward evening I opened the door again.
I see the old elm standing beyond the yard,
holding fast through another fading day,
as though it had watched every passing year.

A homeless woman crossed the road pushing a cart;
she never turned towards me.
Perhaps she carried hope upon her shoulders.
Perhaps she carried sorrow.
From where I stood, each burden wore the same face.

The room behind me remembered every passing hour,
each board giving a weary reply,
an old companion marking another day
that slipped away almost unseen.

Far off, I can hear a church bell drift across the fields.
Its sound grew thinner with every mile,
until longing alone reached my ear.

How strange that a life may gather itself
inside the same four walls,
while the heart keeps traveling roads
the body shall never follow.

I have watched winter surrender to spring,
summer yield to autumn,
then another season begin again.
Time has always carried on its work.

People pause.

Somewhere another lamp begins to shine.
Someone calls a child home.
A gate closes for the night.

Evening settles across every house alike,
offering each soul a moment
to remember what remains,
what slipped away long ago,
and what still waits beyond the door.