what is your handle on the door to the world
mine is a simple thing
the brush in hand
hot wax permeating my senses
some boys stopping in to say hello to mom
and a long sweep of soil awaiting
new growth each season
perhaps too
least I deny this truth
it is the enough to fly
find wings to sibling parents friends afar
and boots to plant
amongst walls I myself
erect and in which no one is held out
but rather invited in