The image of the man by the door looks like someone who has lived a whole life of secrets, and the child in the poem tries to crack him open with questions and joy, just hoping to be seen, to be remembered.
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I asked if doors could dream and if hinges ever sang when no one was listening,
and you laughed, a sound like wind in a bottle, soft and fizzing,
and I kept talking because my words are little birds that never learned to land,
all tumbling out about thresholds and knock-knock jokes and what happens if a door opens and no one’s ready.
You leaned against the wood carved with lions and roses and stories I couldn’t read,
your coat smelling like cloves and rain,
and for a moment you listened like the world was quieter than me,
like my chatter mattered, like maybe even a door could love me for asking so much.
But then you stepped through the passage, boots echoing like goodbye,
and I stood with my hand on the place your smile had been,
still full of questions, still knocking,
wondering if I was the door or the silence.
About the Creator
Diane Foster
I’m a professional writer, proofreader, and all-round online entrepreneur, UK. I’m married to a rock star who had his long-awaited liver transplant in August 2025.
When not working, you’ll find me with a glass of wine, immersed in poetry.
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Comments (1)
Aye, me lass, doors do indeed dream of deep forests & clear babbling brooks, sweet & sticky with sap & the breeze running shivers through their leaves & across their limbs. And the hinges do sing of many a welcome & fond farewell to adventures far beyond their ken, touched by infinite longing, songs carried by both bird & bard, echoing through their hearing.