The Teacher’s Door

The wooden frame groans

under years of hands

scratching names, dates—

remnants of passing time.

She stands just beyond

that worn threshold,

steady in her quiet gaze,

asking about roads I didn’t think

she’d care to know.

Her voice folds around

the lost corners of my years,

pulls open something tight

I’d locked away without a key.

Names faded in the grain,

but her words hold their weight,

a stubborn light beneath

the dust.