The Little Doors

You find them low on the trunk where the moss grows thick,

Small rounded doors that were never quite brick.

No hinges that move and no handle to turn —

Just a promise of passage the quiet ones learn.

Are they shut to keep something from wandering out?

Or waiting for someone who knows the right route?

If you kneel in the evening and listen too near,

You might hear soft footsteps that never appear.

These little wood doors are for gardens that lean

Toward shadow and story and spaces between.

Fix one to a tree, to a wall, to a stone —

And see what small questions take root on their own.