as you stand in
the back yard,
after the funeral,
short and unattended
but by a few,
you notice
this broken latch,
the metal smooth
and worn, cold
iron having given
way after so long
in use, unrusted,
but not new. how
many times her
hand must have
pulled it up
and over to keep
a dog in, the geese
from the far blue
pond out when
they wandered up
on black webbed
heels to get into
the garden. what
darkness there
is in that house
now, empty,
waiting to exhale
all that it holds.
letting go, as
the gate has done.
sighing enough,
enough of keeping
things in,
things out.
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