Starling beats her wings on the porch roof,
blind to the open door.
Infant cries for the ball
rolled barely beyond her reach.
Seen from below, the ladder to the belfry
leads to utter darkness.

A decade younger me saw older age
in tones of grey and soot.
Now, sewn further with time’s needle,
I weave new doors,
come to a place that leads everywhere,
enfolded in the questions that can
make or unmake a life.