The garden gate stands weathered and worn

The garden gate stands, weathered and worn,

a faded green, peeling paint like lost whispers,

rusty hinges creak with ghosts of laughter,

memories spill forth like leaves in the fall,

times spent under sun's watchful gaze.

I run my fingers along the texture,

each bump a story, each scratch a tear,

a place where dreams twisted with vines,

that old gate still sways in the wind,

uninvited, yet beckoning me home.