Marjorie Allen Seiffert

The narrow door

Is open to the starlight. Let us go,

Beloved, toward the night.

We venture into darkness—when we speak

It is like wind blowing through withered grass,

While from our hearts no word

Disturbs the silence where we pass:

And though our fingers sparkle when they touch,

Like fireflies, our fingers still are young;

Our spirits have forgotten much—

Night is a song in a forgotten tongue.

We try to fling

Our lives into the night—our bodies sway,

We gesture bravely with our hands;

Our spirits cling

To the safe nothingness of yesterday.

And so at last, unshattered as before,

Laughing, breathless, desperate, we return

To the narrow door.