It was bound to happen: we all go through
that narrow door which swings wide for us. 
My friend got there first, a little out of breath,
surprised, no doubt, how easily it opened.

I had hoped to catch him, having glimpsed him 
in the crowd ahead. “Friend!” I called out, 
as the traffic clattered past, but he was farther
up the hill and would not have known my voice

from sixty years and a continent’s divide. As in
a dream I saw him move, but I could not move.
As in a dream I called out, but I could not make 
a sound.

We change from moment to moment, 
but not that we can see. Green leaf to brown
while we are not looking. Then winter’s
pale light and bare ruined choirs.

We see that door in front of us, our hand
raised to knock. We hear the footsteps
coming up. A voice behind the door
calls out our name. We are home.