The white screen door,

With olive cracks

In worn pentimento

Opens when—-


At the smudged spot—-

The shiny place

On the old brass handle,

Locking or releasing


The granite porch,

Which, every day,

Leads down

To sunken rounds of stone,

Buried in the tufted grass

Calling up the driveway.

In ruts gone deep

To the earthy bone,

Rocks seep up

From down,

Raising ground and

Making compact

Its keep.

Deep in rain,

The colored ones,

Little pebbles

From the stream,

In reds, blues, greens and cream,

Tumble along the

Rainbow drain.

Larger ones

Worn smooth

By the adagios

Of wheels,

Feel permanent:


Mostly hidden


Waves of dust

Frozen in depth,

They lie unmoved

In the loosening fuss.

Every day,

The way

Drives out

Onto the road,

Gone somewhere

Lightening the load of stone.

Come back at night,

And the light

On ruts

Catches sight

Of little things

Scurrying —-

 A flurry of gravel


From here,

Comes time

And again—-

The memento

Of the driveway,

To the door.

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