The white screen door,
With olive cracks
In worn pentimento
Opens when—-
Nudged
At the smudged spot—-
The shiny place
On the old brass handle,
Locking or releasing
Unto—-
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:
Stoneburgs.
Mostly hidden
Beneath
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
Travel.
From here,
Comes time
And again—-
The memento
Of the driveway,
To the door.
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