One thing leads to another:
a cool summer dawn,
the dog with a dead bird,
the garden’s sudden bloom—
you have to pay attention
to know when the door is open.
Late in the day, collecting signs,
the kitchen bursts into flame,
the portal opens and I step
back into another afternoon,
not the memory of it,
but the time itself, the same
light and air, my body mine
but not mine,
our ancient oak still split
by lightning,
my father forever throwing a baseball,
my mother eternally watering the roses.
You return reluctantly, or maybe
not at all. The door opens,
then shuts, then opens again.

Photo By: @Doug88888