The Doorway is a portal

Doorways are portals to another place.
A hole framed in the wall, locked, closed or open.
We cross the threshold and enter a place with its
own air, function, temperature, shape and energy.
But what of the handle? How many have turned the key?
Hands have been this way before,
Imparting their energy at this great divide.
Some come with a soft and quiet touch,
turning the knob silently and sneaking in without a creak.
Others struggle through, juggling shopping, keys and mail.
Some have stormed outside flinging the door shut with a clap.
Hands have been this way before.
Bringing good news and bad.
Knocking with a common rhythm, known to many,
quiet finger raps or large pounding fists.
Returning from a trip or welcoming long lost friends.
The hand on the doorknob ends the evening
waiting for that first kiss.
A portal to another place.

019 All a blur

Blur

 
 

Time is an illusion.
Last month it crawled through
broken glass with weary sighs
so slow it doubled in size.
This week it is all a blur,
the spinning force pinning
me to the outer walls
leaving me giddy.
Looking forward, looking back.
Time is an illusion.