Pathways
There is a beautiful door to the old Spanish Customs house across the bayou, it is a big, arched, metal door almost Arabic in its design. Just mysterious enough to always make me glance at it when I turn down Grand Route St. John. T gave me a card with a photograph of a similar door with a red bud blooming on the side of it, and on the back, a poem by Rilke:
Pathways
Understand, I’ll slip quietly
away from the noisy crowd
When I see the pale
stars rising, blooming, over the oaks.
I’ll pursue solitary pathways
through the pale twilight meadows,
with only this one dream:
You come too.