Poem #7

You are a door wreathed in green
and streaming with gold
a via, a way, I want to try
a threshold
I long to cross
into your inner sanctum.

I place my palms against the grain
(expect roughness)
feel satin as soft as sin.
I trace the entryway,
fingers whispering
against every line of your surface,
look for the secret lever or button
to swing your portcullis wide.

I lean against the make of you
marvel at the feel
of simultaneously standing
on the doorstep of home
and knocking for entrance
to your forbidden zone.
— Annette Marie Smith
(Poem #7 National Poetry Month)