A door stands quiet, out of sight,
Its edges lined with silver light.
It hums a tune both soft and low,
Of secret lands the brave may know.
It waits for hands that dare to turn,
For hearts that seek, for souls that yearn.
Beyond its frame, the skies may change,
The air grow sweet, the colors strange.
I am from coffee beans,
from bitter brews and cracked porcelain mugs.
I am from the steamed soy eggs,
the scent that clings to mornings
like an old, Chinese dwelling.
Lights aglow on Christmas morn,
Laughter and joy in moments reborn.
Love fills the air as stories are shared,
A day of warmth, with hearts unprepared.
In Amherst's shade, where whispers grow,
You stitched the seams of all we know,
A bee's soft hum, a slant of light,
Became the fabric of your night.
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