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By the Door
My unpolished leather shoes wait by the door,
Creased from being left too long,
As if they remember places
I keep choosing not to go.
The dimmed afternoon settles over me,
Quiet, comforting, almost forgiving;
Piles of postal mail remain unopened,
Like something I choose not to finish.
Outside, an untamed river keeps moving,
Without asking if I’m ready or willing;
Crying crows stretch their voices across the sky,
While black ants trace circles I don’t follow.
Plain old bed sheets hold me in place...
and I let them.
