The old screened door screens nothing more than
flies, mosquitoes — an errant moth,
although the flies find ways to get around
and buzz their intermittent sound —
and rub their grubby forepaws in anticipation.
The odors and sounds and echoes of the last life
move through and past the meshed, rusting wires,
and flood the out-of-doors with human touch,
and flood the in-of-doors with honeysuckle and so much more.
The door which creeks on olding hinge, and stretching spring
brings back those days when blowing breeze found ease of life
without the stress and strife of these diminished, modern ways.
Those days are gone, gone, gone.
But not forgotten.
Copyright © by Lawrence S. Marsden, 6 April, 2014