Threshold.

THRESHOLD

   High doors sway
   batting warm air and cold
   this way and that
   through the days of our lives.

   Our hands rest
   where a thousand palms
   have pressed before us-pushing
   towards whatever awaits.

   We are always leaving
   one place, arriving in another
   moving in and out of ourselves
   to and from the things of the world.

   Winter; the porch is cool,
   full of ghosts of these comings
   and goings--you heading one way,
   me in the other.