Door by Barry Spacks
Cousin Barbara and I found a white wooden door
with once-golden knobs, corroded black hinges,
a raft for our play on the beach at Lake Erie,
and no one carted the door away.
We were seven. We left the door there nightly
moored on that strip of beach and, hola,
returning each day we’d find it still there
It filled us with joy that it hadn’t been taken.
We felt a sort of religious awe
to leave our precious door all night
unclaimed, unprotected on the sand
and it waited for us — O, generous world!