If there is a door, I invite you but a reunion
to hold between our fingers.
A little sacrifice made its way
through the porch where we planted
a promise, perhaps a joy unnoticed,
as the mischief streaked with a tail
to whip us, to wake us up.

If there is a door, I request you but a triumph
to recall on the pages stuck to the wall.
An exhale ran through a roaring cascade,
tumbled over the chance to reassemble;
a burden of no choice, a cackle but
bookmarked for every fall we encounter.