Trying to wrestle an alligator -

The Door

We are replacing our front door with one of clear glass.

It is time to let the light inside

and look more closely at our Japanese Garden, planned for health

and healing.

The garden looks in,

each stone a cell,

a cell for contemplation,

a unit in one body,

a pattern curved to slip the knot of pain

that may try to grasp

and hold.

When pain cries,

circle it,

like ripples round a rock

thrown into a pond.

Let it drop, and sink

where mud and sand compose

new stanzas for notes

that float between the bars.

Open the door to see

out and in.

Let out and in trickle back and forth

like the path of the cat

with a view from the top

of the fence.

Let paws be thin.