Certain

There are marks upon my door
I'm certain weren't there before -
a finger brushed a breath of dust
I'd placed there earnestly.

Late, I knew the patterns there
were lines I'd write but never share;
as metal must, I'll age and rust
and swing until I creak.

Hinge to edge me, how I claimed
to know each wooden piece by name -
though never rushed a sign of trust
so fleetingly away.

Stale the earth that's resting there
in fresh gray snow no knuckles wear -
but there are marks upon my door
I'm certain weren't there before.


~

Age when written: 16