The Pen

The Wooden Screen Door ©
by Rebecca Case

Small hands gently press wire mesh on the old wooden door.
It swings open on creaky hinges. The back porch becomes our launching pad.
Jumping off of concrete steps our feet drum staccato beats upon a worn path.
Our arms stretch into wings as we descend the steep hillside.
Almost straight
............................d
...............................o
..................................w
.....................................n
along the tree sheltered decline. Feet stop, hands hang at our sides.
We land almost breathless on the bank, in front of a mist we try to inhale.
Water billows into streams and folds over rockbeds.

..........................We rest.
.........................................We step into the water.

Tawny foam sweeps brushstrokes around ankles.
We lift rocks and stack them in a pile.
It tumbles into a mess with a dull thud.
Green leaves turn golden in the reflection of the sun.
Light and shadow dance and play upon the petals of
dogtooth violets that dot the grass beyond the bank.
We return the fallen piles of rocks to the water.
These are the master works of our hands.
We step back to squint like painters.
Uncaged birds, lingering among gilded moments.
A sinking sun streaks the sky with a palate of orange and red.
We climb to the wooden door.
It swings open on creaky hinges.

Rebecca Case (copyright 2013—all rights reserved)