The porch boards creak beneath old shoes

The porch boards creak beneath old shoes,

faint footprints pressed in dust that waits.

Outside, a breath of morning news

pushed soft against the locked front gates.

The delivery waits, pen in hand,

patience folding into the air.

I stand still, firm as cracked land—

too brittle now to step or dare.

Dust clings tight beneath the door,

a silent guard that marks the line.

I watch the day rise, wanting more,

but not enough to claim as mine.

The weight of crossing presses slow,

a border held by stubborn feet.

This threshold’s still a place to know,

a pause where day and quiet meet.