I hear the thud of the screen door slamming

I hear the thud of the screen door slamming,

kids rushing out, laughter like echoes of joy,

a summerscape painted with shouts and races,

where time drips slowly, like honey—

don't come in just yet, it seems to say.

Each creak in the hinge tells a tale,

rusting and peeling, just like our dreams,

and the way the wind pushes back,

a memory swirling, fading with dusk,

reminding me that I stood in both places.