Poems by Patricia Keough Wilson



Mysterious door, the cover on a card
sent from the Arabian world

by a friend who once worked there
on a project once upon a time.
Now kept in a frame, left for my eyes
to look at often for almost
a quarter of a century.

Sticky glass, rarely washed,
never slid down to
release the card with
the note inside.

The sender now gone to
be with the Lord.


We both believed in God,
in Heaven, in right and wrong.
Our lives’ paths sometimes close
sometimes intersecting,
too often pulling apart
 in different directions.
But he had a residence
in my heart
with the door kept ajar.


I slide the glass down metal sides
Open the card to read words
written before, before I
married my best friend,
and went down a new path,
not wide enough for a trio to walk.
His closing words puzzled me then,
still puzzle me now.

He said he sent me
my own half open door,
telling me I could decide
whether to close it or open it.


I did not know what that door
offered, what it symbolized
where it led, what would be left
what would be found. Too complex
I chose the simple way.
I put it in a frame;
stopped thinking about it.
Today, I look at the pictured door,
read his words and know I still
struggle with doors, finding it hard
to stay or to go, torn betwixt and between.

Tears threaten as I replace the card
in the frame. I miss the friend
who sent that card, wrote those words,
wish we had shared one more conversation.
Left wondering what he meant
and now I will never know.


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