Doors, Doors, and Doors

And in my dream I walk corridors with old creaking floors, deep in the sanctum of my soul echoes stir calling me to come; soon, I enter a hall of doors, doors and doors . . . red doors painted bright, green doors with polished knobs. Blue, deeply and darkly lovely blue, varnished doors, a heavy ornate church door, ajar, beckoning hymns drift; one hundred year old doors with brass chimes, portals to long ago, wide barn doors in antique grey, opening wide, thresholds. Doors with stripped, chipped white paint, oh my beating heart, rounded doors, wooden doors, some to push, some to pull; through a long forgotten door the wreckage of my life . . . A door opens, new and polished shiny, the entrance to where? Closed doors, swinging doors, locked doors with a sign Do Not Open, doors with steps, doors with brass keys dangling; and doors with chimes, press here for access, my dear, then, I see two doors side by side, a simple cedar door- a golden door. Oh, I stand unsure, which door? I hesitate and then, I put my hand on the knob of the golden door- nirvana is beyond; then, I open the simple cedar door, which takes me to the here and now, and I breathe a sigh of relief, yes, this is exactly where I need to be. ______________________ March 24, 2017 Poetry/Prose /Doors, Doors, and Doors Copyright Protected, ID 03- 887-007-24 All Rights Reserved, 2017, Constance La France Written for the Standard contest, Doors sponsor, Richard Lamoureaux, Judged 08/2021 Seventh Place