does it knock [in ironicpoliteness] then smash itself onto the door and pound itself in
  taking theinitiative and forcing me to feel its potent yet loving fingers
  break intomy cocoon and glide all over me despite my shirking away?

will it stand there,peeking through the window, sliding its fingertips down the glass
  hoping theglow of the finger press will shine through my eyes-pressed-closed
  so i can sensethe rich luminosity
  waiting forme to open my lids, and then the door, and then my heart?

or will it quietlyremain outside my door
  for decadesif necessary
  calmly
  because itlives outside time anyway
  knowing it’suncertain whether i’ll ever even open the door
  or even figureout there’s a door there to open
  because noone ever said there’s something so rich to believe in
  since childishdreams of ideals are probably only dreams anyway, right?

or will it only geta chance to walk halfway up the front lawn
  and while i’mtoasting an English muffin
  will I getthe sense of its nearness, its overflowing energy and essence of rich richlove
  then just dropthe butter knife
  and sprintthrough the house
  out the frontdoor
  and leap intoits embrace as soon as my reach allows?

Copyright 2002, StephenBuckley
v1 08.22.02, 1150pm 
v2 08.23.02, 120am