There is a passage lush with moss,damp from morning dew that calls me to step across the threshold into something new. The things I've known catch on my sleeves and pant legs like prickers on already harvested black berry bushes. They pull, scratch, and demand I stay past the harvest; to only see glimpses of cool green just beyond gate. I've peeked over the wall to that garden, and it looks like a place I might want to call home; if only there was time to make it just that - home.
It's no mistake that the grass is sometimes greener. I've seen that cool, restful plot and laid my hope in that space that separates me from what is and what is yet to be. The gate is unlocked, yet I keep thinking I'm left outside of this garden. Moving heart-heavy feet across the green to the greener can take some effort. Just beyond that threshold is all the new, the in-progress, and not quite comfortable yet. Inhale. Exhale.
Lift a left foot, then the right. Step by step, grace is leading the way across the green threshold - tonight.
T.L. Eastman/September 2013
This poem is in response to ChristineValters, "Poetry Party #70" and image above to pay attention to the "Call of Newness" on her page, Abby of the Arts.
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