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singer at the gate (rev. version)
Folder:
reworked vintage
The latch is cold, an unhewn piece of iron
resting in the quiet between two breaths
to risk the crack in a voice that only wants
to harmonize with the shadow on the other side
It is the clumsy reaching of a hand
that fears it might disrupt the music of the house
a melody trapped like water under winter ice
running deep and silent where no one else can drink
So, the foot hovers, not locked in stone
the first unpractised note poised on the soft edge of welcome
air thick with the scent of unlit candles
and the terrible, beautiful choice of the first word
to break the stillness with an earnest plea
or to trust that listening ears already know their step
the house keeps its music, patient and small
the gate holds its cold, indifferent answer
.
