The door was half open
or half closed. A silent message
of entry or release. Quiet held the
air hostage. Outside sounds found
another place to speak into day.
Moments of decisions gnaw at choices.
The whereabouts of capturing a thought
or driving it out hung in the balance.
Each life walks a line, visible to the
traveler, hidden from the weak.
The artist within shapes the canvas
with colors and shadows.
Half open, half closed, the seeds of
direction call to everyone.
Roger Singer 