At some humble door, by a worn threshold
sometimes I pause to look on something old--
not an ancient ruin nor prize of war,
no monument of fame, subject to lore,
nor triumph of all that's violent and bold.
These try hide one thing, irreparably sold,
even when dressed in pure marble, in gold.
I want the secrets of a plain, ground floor
at some humble door.
Fur-lined or threadbare, what feet crossed, who's told?
Swift in joy, blood raging, or sorrow slowed?
I marvel to reckon what we ignore--
how easily monsters have crossed before,
how many angels are left in the cold
at some humble door.

08/05/2012

Posted on 08/05/2012
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