Life of a Door

Solid behind my back, smelling of fresh oil base it hangs.
Is it happy to be here with me as simple rugged furniture,
Watching as I read or write or sleep?
Before, for a hundred years or more,
It served as barrier between rooms, between people, complete
With locks that none could pass without a skeleton.
Was it happy then? preferring to be opened or closed?
What tragedies or triumphs did it witness in its home as silent door
To bedroom, bathroom, study, cellar
Who were the many, glad for its selfless committment
To protect from sound and eyes
Or was it happier as a stack of boards
Or as logs ripped from their sedentary majesty
As trees
Or was it as seeds that fullfilled it most,
Tiny flesh, full of life inside their hard shells,
Or as their mother flowers, perhaps.
Or as light or soil or water or air.
I was there, too, at its birth and mine.
As light, and soil, water and air
And I will always be
As it will always be
A door to something, somewhere.
For Now, though, we will enjoy only
This kindred moment together.