the gate

the gate, when new
would swing easily
letting you in or out
for years, you pulled
the latch and
pushed. you came
and went as you
pleased, but
enough winters have
passed that the hinge
has rusted, the wood
has grown soft and
rotted at the bottom
where the ice
and snow rose.
it hardly closes
now, with loose
pins and screws,
it needs a push as
it squeaks, rattles
against itself,
not unlike you.