.…tend to get gathered
as we grow older.
Some days a hundred or more
and nothing to open;
others, a turn, and look!
acres and corners
of structures and loveliness.
Nothing goes less
well for the pocket, though.
Keys, then, can sometimes
grow like chains. A reign
of keys is no fun,
all cut up and out of the harsh eye of work,
no plastic but metal scathing
pockets, working in plates
and holed mechanisms.
But then there is the dearest key
that clicks. Push, and wait
till the door, no longer
reinforced, opens wider,
and wider.
(from “The Light Of Day (1)”)
to Jonathan Finch: A great poem. I also have keys lost in a drawer. But the ones I miss most are the keys to my poems that hide in the Bar of time.
Reminds me of my Dad. When I was going through his things after he passed I found a ton of keys. Who knows what they open.
Yes, keys just grow and grow. I’ve got a friend who has so many she can’t make head or tail of most of them!