Nothing More Than A Door

I’m going out of my mind

looking for a way in, out,

something solid in my hand,

a handle, a knob, a brass ring, anything.

Walls do not breathe,

they do not dream,

they do not question

their need for doors.

The woods are different,

they breathe, dream,

wear their silence like a promise,

wait for us when we are closed.

We are weary of walls,

we are done with doors,

we are dreaming beyond them,

breathing back to the silence of the trees.

©Charles Ghigna