by Renwick Berchild

Open your footpaths, for are we not all travelers of the road?
I say to death with your walled gardens, to death with your gates,
to death with all the looming towers of 900 rooms for a dozen men;
I say, let’s put back the prairie grass, let’s call home the deer
and have them roam, shoveling the forests with trodding hooves
so we may stroll behind their journeys, hearing trees purr.   

Open your doors, for are we not all residents of the world?
I say bring life to your halls, bring life to your dining table,
bring life to your bedrooms, and lace with strangers in midwinter;
I say, let’s put away our padlocks and chains, our polishes for floors,
let’s call in the insects with wings thrumming like drums out there,
feed them honey and sugar, fruits and wood from our spoons.


3 Comments to “Open”

  1. This could become an epic. I’d read it in book format, like “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.”

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