“The Gate” (Sara Church)

The gate stares
Everyday as I pass by.
Cracked and peeling
Once-white paint,
Weather torn and worn,
Revealing gray-brown
Spotted wood beneath.
Held shut by a rusty latch,
The only thing between me
And the thin path that snakes
Its way through thick-trunked
Oaks and maples lined with
Honeysuckle and hawthorn
That threaten to swallow
The shaded trail that curves
And winds into
Where does it lead?
A deep breath and I reach–
The gate creaks open,
Rusted metal grating
Old wood and I leave
The known road
For the mystery
Of an overgrown path.


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