does it knock [in ironic politeness] then smash itself onto the door and pound itself in
  taking the initiative and forcing me to feel its potent yet loving fingers
  break into my 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 the glow of the finger press will shine through my eyes-pressed-closed
  so i can sense the rich luminosity
  waiting for me to open my lids, and then the door, and then my heart?

or will it quietly remain outside my door
  for decades if necessary
  calmly
  because it lives outside time anyway
  knowing it’s uncertain whether i’ll ever even open the door
  or even figure out there’s a door there to open
  because no one ever said there’s something so rich to believe in
  since childish dreams of ideals are probably only dreams anyway, right?

or will it only get a chance to walk halfway up the front lawn
  and while i’m toasting an English muffin
  will I get the sense of its nearness, its overflowing energy and essence of rich rich love
  then just drop the butter knife
  and sprint through the house
  out the front door
  and leap into its embrace as soon as my reach allows?

Copyright 2002, Stephen Buckley
v1 08.22.02, 1150pm 
v2 08.23.02, 120am