The Threshold
I am a door.
I open myself to visitors and they walk their way on through
They stay for a while, resting a second or two within my threshold
And they are gone, passed unto the world beyond myself.
My door is made of glass.
They look on through me as if I am nothing but a barrier to the next stage
My body is invisible as though I am not there
And I wonder if passer-bys are aware
That their door is a person
And she feels the weight of an entire human being passing through her world
While they feel nothing but the threshold
And I wonder if they know that I wish they would stay for a while
I wonder why they are in such a hurry to move on through one door to the next.
-Mariposa
by 