letter to my grandson

there is a gate
and a garden that i never wanted to fence in
a hand rests on the latch; rusted and worn
but by time not by employment
a breath brushes over wooden points
paint in old streaks
a nail released its load and
grazes a knee for hinges that no longer turn
age crawled into the boards
evoked life as in an old grave
little insects; mold on moist
and a hand hesitating on the latch

you wanted to come in but time closed the entry
and broke the nerves until the gate fell to dust,
and the garden was given back to the world
there was no more latch
no more hinges
and you came and looked for me.
but I had left
without regret