Farewell to a Front Door

Well, this is the last poem I will post from Missouri. We are on our way to the new home in Arizona, and very much looking forward to a new life there.

Meantime, one backward look at our front door…

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It’s a small front door all painted white
Except where the paint is peeled and bare,
With a screen to harbor the summer air,
The daytime wasps, fireflies at night.
It’s scraped by the dog on the inside too,
As she can’t see why her own front door
Is used by the swallows and, even more,
She knows that the mockingbird just flew
Down on the porch and is making cheer
With a dozen songs just outside the glass,
Where its window lets the daylight pass;
(We are friends with the sun and the swallows here.)
The door is scratched, and we have to lift
So the latch will catch when we shut it tight.
No doubt new owners will want it “right”;
But a door’s just a way to give the gift
Of passage between the in and out,
A way to meet all the little things
That a house with a porch in the sunshine brings--
Just a white-painted door that’s small and stout.