deedeewisdom

The Door

It leaned against the dusty wall
Within the cellar deep
Forgetting all the good it served
In days that now just sleep

Until the gray haired gentleman
Did stir its knob and hinge
To nail it near the kitchen stove
To serve a home again

He fit it, coaxed it, shave it, hung
While in his mind years flashed
Of doors, floors, walls, in homes, schools, halls,
Which he, himself, had patched

The tools, they hummed like violins
He knew them to the core.
And then that piece of wood he held
Was once again a door.

The kitchen now is guarded by
That door, so strong the boards.
As bacon, eggs, and muffins cook
Next room, the old man snored!

In 1984 my Dad came to my home with his tool box and got the old door out of the cellar
and placed it securely between the kitchen the the living room. He passed in 1994 and this
poem was my thanks to him for his service that day.

Diane Findlen Garrow