19th & Irving
I wake this morning with a sadness.
Can’t find it. Can’t shake it. But with
my third coffee, I notice the French doors on the balcony across the street,
They seem to speak in a language no one hears
unless sad. Suddenly, the whole world depends
on the thin opening of these doors: on what
they let in, on what they let out. Like my mind,
or your heart. All day I look for opened doors;
left open, blown open, broken open. Doors
whose latches have finally worn down. Is this
what sadness is for: to wear our latches down?
The Way Under the Way; The Place of True Meeing