‘…a language no one hears.’

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,

slightly open.

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?

-Mark Nepo

The Way Under the Way; The Place of True Meeing