Every morning, I look out the window

and look at the gate.

Why is it so useless?

It’s old brown wood rots in the rain,

and flakes away in the dead of summer

No one uses it, why do we still have it?

What is its purpose?

I think this as the breeze sways the oak trees

in a playful dance. 

Looking up, the clouds swiftly float the sky as

they hold the purpose of lightly shading the fields.

Cherry red, sunburst orange, and pale yellow coat 

my favorite patch of the minty green grass.

I long to see the mountains up close,

their ashy silhouettes call to me.

The pond this time of year is still too cold

for any creature to swim beneath the surface.

So cold, in fact, that the roaming white tail deer

wince at the water they drink.

The gate doesn’t hold them back; they even laugh at

the gate’s face when they lounge over it as if it were

their own hurdle.

I walk up to the gate and as I’m about to reach out to it,

it opens, welcoming me in.