Behind the Open Door poem by Margaret Leora Workman; Warponie Art

Behind the open door is a memory, a memory of that year and that life. Can we be together? You still hold that feather from my cap. Remember you eyed it from my lap, you grasped it, every bit. I made you sit while I lit my own feather, then it became leather. My car was graven, a sad sight to see, until you wanted to go to tea. We set off to sea, the world was ours to behold. I could have told… Oh, look at this mold. So dark and dank, my face so… Should I go to the bank? Your frame reminded me of our specialty, of the love and joy that it used to be. You had always said that it could be. Remember, love, our backyard was square and short, the bushes were always manicured. I upheld every sort, every pile. All the while you were at the park, so close, so stark, I thought I had made my mark. Can we have a new start? I will bend my bow just to show how low it can really go just for you, just for us. No! Don’t leave on that bus. I can be different for you and me, can’t you see? I remember that year…your frame always reminds me, dear. By Margaret Leora Workman; Warponie Art