Unsteady and stumbling through the crumbled rubble—
This depicts what our lives have now become.
Our house has been swept away
Like a drawing from a dry erase board.
All that remains is a sea of cement slabs
Looking like a disorderly upheaval of crushed ice;
Its wooden beams stretching flimsily towards the sky
Like the loose ends of an unfinished wicker basket;
Part of a once-strong brick wall
Standing crudely sawed in half,
Its edges looking like corrugated cardboard;
In the background
A telephone pole twisted like a wire—
Bent and swaying like a blade of grass in the slightest of breezes.
One oak door standing tall and solitary
As if it has roots too deeply twisted in the ground
For the confusing whirlpool of wind to wrest it from the earth.
How it survived I will never know;
But there it stood
Outlined by the perfectly measured door frame
Looking like a picture hanging against a sky
As gray as a steel sheet
Hovering over the chaos below.
How many times has this door been opened and closed?
Now it stands closed for the last time.
Even if it were opened
It would only reveal the same tragedy on the other side;
Yet the brass doorknob shines like a golden orb
Captivating the eye and drawing me in.
I reach out a trembling hand
To gently touch the smooth familiar handle.
The door is a beacon of hope
Towering above the ruin and decay.
The door may close off my past way of life,
But it is still a door—
One that can also open to opportunities
For starting over fresh and new.
Jonelle Farr: "Though I am new to the writing process, I find that I am facinated by it. I thoroughly enjoy the creativity and looking for specific words to produce just the right image/feeling. I have learned a lot this year and hope to continue writing."