Temple Hymn

These are steps
and this is a wall
and that,
well that is a door.

Reach your hand out.
Feel it’s wood grain beneath
every one of your fingers.
This is not your door.

And as the rain starts
you beat on it
like a drum,
like the downpour on the black asvault,
like a large skin drum.

But it won’t open.
Not for you.

4 comments

  1. Bernadette · November 5, 2007

    I keep thinking about this poem. It reminds me of one of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s sonnets (in theme/content, not form or style), the one that ends “A ghost in marble of a girl you knew/ Who would have loved you in a day or two.” All of which is to say, this is a very nice, tightly crafted poem. I’m impressed, and I wish that I had written it (about the highest compliment I can offer).

  2. zaphodfreek · November 6, 2007

    That certainly is a complement.
    Thank you!

  3. vesper · November 8, 2007

    this is gorgeous. i love the title!

  4. zaphodfreek · November 8, 2007

    :]
    Thanks Vesp.

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