We never move so easily through a place
as when we leave it:    no step
is lighter than the one across
the threshold.
                The thick heat of habit,
the clattering chatter of assumption,
remain, confined behind windowless walls.
Dust drowses in untended corners of
accepted belief, envelops lost conversations,
spreading a summer sleep, heavy
as stone.
                 Only the Keeper of Doors
lifts his face toward the air, alert to
shifting breezes, the song of the stars.

We never move so easily through a place as
when we leave it:   no step is lighter than
the one across the threshold.