I spent time standing in front of the door.
The lock, just beyond me, with marigold
splash, daybreak oozing between the narrow
lip and curve. I could see inside, the bare wood
covered in our years here, shine and scratch,
our comings and goings pressed into each plank.
We could walk away from this place
or stay and fill the bedrooms, listen for laughter,
their young voices along the tree-lined streets.
The eggshell walls temporary, the paintings and furniture
will color and shift. This key, like us, is turning, turning still.
This house, a new beginning, collecting objects and selves.