The Doorway
Tea going cold on the sill.
The screen door open,
not decided.
The yard holds its light
the way yards do:
without opinion,
without rush.
A bird lands on the fence post,
considers,
leaves.
This is the life
that accumulated
while I was looking
for another one.
The tea.
The light.
The door
that could go either way.
I have learned to stand here
without asking
what it means.
Most mornings
that is almost true.
*
Michael J. Kolb is a writer, educator, and archaeologist based in Colorado. He writes across disciplines, exploring nature, memory, and illness, asking what we carry and what we leave behind. His collection What Keeps Me Looking Out the Window was a finalist for the 2026 Press 53 Award. His poems appear in Third Wednesday, The Shore, Sky Island Journal, Eunoia Review, Defenestration, Trampoline, San Antonio Review, Speckled Trout Review, and Moss Piglet. Instagram: @michaeljkolb; substack.com/@michaeljkolb.
