Doorway

The distance between one breath and another

is like the miles starlight travels to reach

my dreams. I write my way toward my death,

behind me a crumb trail of words erasing,

birds carrying morsels to their hungry chicks.

Years I’ve traveled the byways 

of language, searching for that doorway --

light spilling over the threshold.

Voices murmur beneath sleep,

weave a sky dense with memory.

Once a poet read lines so beautiful

I knew I could follow her down

the hardest road without faltering.

My feet grew tired, but I remembered my name.