She could hear the old gate.
It squeaked a sad song both ways, swinging.
And cast shade in the shapes of diamonds from its crisscrossed wooden planks.
And though she was unable to see him from inside, the gate’s opening announced his homecoming.
Violins couldn’t have sounded sweeter after this long wait.
The gate’s cry might as well have been a love song about a long road home.
Or a wayfarer’s poem upon returning.
The opening and closing lines sung by an old bystander who’d seen so many come and go.
Coloring the air with its song no matter which way they passed.