Your Door: A Poem to My Son

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Such is the challenge
To behold a door
To sense all it leads to
While not grieving more

To know if it’s opened
The Divine has willed
To praise, when it’s closed
His providence, still

Forth, amble with purpose
Or wait night and day
But ask for The Blessing
God’s presence, to stay

Comfort

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Could there be more heav’nly sounds
More clear-cut answer to prayer
As these wondrous crickets’ songs
Bless the lonely air

Tear-stained girl, lovesick boy
“Keep the hope,” ’tis said
This night, they’ll keep you company
Their concert voids the dread

Photographic Memory Expedition

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One would ask, “Wouldn’t it be lovely?”
Driving down gridded streets that sometimes wound East, then South.
Thinking of shutters painted contrasting colors, or perhaps altogether removed.

One imagines children’s summertime voices.
Carefree and popsicle glee, front sidewalks their territory.
As it should be.

One seems perfect there.
Small and yellow, with miles and miles of welcome.
Surely big enough for whatever weather.