Becoming the Door

The wood behind me
Is hard and
Ungiving.

I lean against its form -
Its straight lines and 
Indentations press my back.

I face it.
Place my palms
On its mouldings -

Yes: well and
Truly shut.
I am glad.  I

Turn the other 
Way, not looking
Back, its structure

Strengthens my spine,
Takes the strain,
Its hard edges

Will me to go on.
I take its shine,
Its protection,

Its uprightness and
When I move I will
Don its gloss, be

Wood-clothed, be
Unmoving, intransigent,
Truly shut.  I will be

A wooden relic lodged 
In the recess of a high and
Long wall, fitted then

Forgotten, but
Serene unto itself and
Functioning.

previous poem