The Brick Path
Is there a right way for a sweet, yellow rose to unfurl and bask gratefully under a gentle June sun?
Is there a right way for the clouds to part, while the world sleeps, setting the garden aglow with moonlight?
Is there a right was for a loyal maple, much climbed and often read under, to release its golden leaves into a bright autumn breeze?
Is there a right way for the coast to beckon to incoming swells, luring them toward an inevitable, tumbling, raucous embrace?
Is there a right way to open the gate, walk down the carefully-swept brick path to the shady road, and open our green mailbox, hoping for a letter from you?
Is there a right way, then, to sigh as I withdraw my empty hand, glancing right and left to see if a neighbor has noticed my shameful solitude?
I turn, walk back up the path, and close the gate behind me.
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
Entrance to the Garden Gate by T.E. Butler