Questions for a Traveler
There is a plain, wooden door,
a name carved deeply in it.
The name is yours
but it is not what you call yourself.
It is a curious language,
familiar to tongue but not to mind.
Did you find it as you hiked a forest trail,
life greening in early summer?
Was there a song in the back of your throat
as you climbed up the hillside,
a flush of sunlight washing through your eyes,
the entry in front of you?
Would you simply open it,
or knock first, standing
in the middle of everything, of nothing,
wind whispering high in the leaves?
Open. Your breath will catch
in a light you never imagined,
like walking inside the daytime sky,
stars scattered inside you.