The gate remains ajar after the crossing.
A thread of wool holds to the grain.
Beyond the wall, the grass begins recovering
the shape it had before the rain.
No figure waits beneath the window.
No voice explains the turning of the path.
The hillside keeps its unfinished movements:
a leaf, a cloud, the water in a crack.
I thought a place began with looking,
as though the dark were waiting for a frame.
But roots were working underneath the threshold;
the stones were cooling before I came.
The moon gives no names to what it touches.
It finds the latch, the lichen, and the ground.
One amber pane can hold a direction
without announcing what remains unfound.
I leave the wall its irregularity.
Each stone supports another without rhyme.
The opening is part of what was built here,
not something left unfinished by mistake.
There will be footsteps tomorrow.
The hinge will answer weight, then settle still.
Now, the path belongs to grass and weather,
and violet gathers on the hill.
I do not close the scene when I stop watching.
The wind goes on beyond the field.
A place can offer passage without promise.
The gate remains unsealed.
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