At The Gate
Gardenias yearn from stems
moonward; I stop to stretch,
just a pause–
no more, no less;
no time to obsess
or linger dissectingly,
but to instead
preserve artlessness.
There is no lateness.
There is no early.
Tonight, simply: “the moment”;
timelessness.
In the house
the lights wink out.
There is no deep reflection,
no over whelm of thought–
only a flicker of leaves
in the starlight;
from the barn–
the welcome light
left on in the loft.
The hinges groan;
a backwards glance,
and then, the catch of the latch.
©Oct 13, 2012 by UT2