The Door

Gifts are piling up, behind a closed door

To unlock, we must first traverse a dark floor

Those gifts cannot be sold or bartered

Meant for one who explores the unchartered

The vast oceans we have mapped

The remote stars, our telescopes have gapped

What’s within reach, it is left out

Each is given a unique route

The locked door goes everywhere we go

Patiently holding gifts from long ago

The keys will appear in our delicate fingers

When washed, the sensory scent no longer lingers

The door opens when we stop pushing

The breath still, and no longer rushing

We become the door and the gift

Waiting for a knock from those left adrift