It is colder than the thermometer claims
as we near the end of the season
the season of dying
felt all the more keenly for fasting
hunger leaves space for faith.
The gate lies open
and the inscription above bids me enter.
Music comes from within
although no service is in train
and standing here on the threshold
only ancient oak separates me from God
but the door stays closed to methe great key was turned from the other side.
(c) 2013 The Slush Poet