The Gate
The big gate swings both ways.
Ponderous and slow, with
Children hanging from it.
High enough at posts end
For kids to scramble under,
Entering the farmer’s field
Where brown and white cows
graze lazily among yellow-bright dandelions
impervious to their dwindling hours.
They perch near the post,
Dragging one foot across the ground,
Feeling resistance as they swing across
The distance of each moment;
Out there in the middle, the gate swings low;
Close to the ground where it fans the flies off cow paddies.
The children swing with all their weight,
Drawing lines across a caked mud road;
The metal gate is painted white,
With brown age spots of rust,
Just as the brown and white cows
Safely kept within the field.
The children leap from one gate to the other,
Always reaching for another gate to swing on.
They swing so freely into the smiling face
Of their summer God, unaware,
That one day they will swing
On gates that are made of pearl.
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