Root Cellar

The iron ring is orange with the rot,

a heavy circle sunken in the weeds.

I pull until the hinges give a lot

of grinding sound that the silence needs.

I haven't been down here since I was five,

when he would lock the door against the rain.

The smell of wet lime makes me feel alive

and sharpens every dull and ancient pain.

A winter coat is slumped upon the stair,

its wool is black and eaten by the mold.

I find a ghost of him still sitting there

to keep me from the damp and from the cold.