The Key



When I was very young I found a key,
A brass key shining in the fallen leaves.
It seemed the kind of sign that one receives,
A hint of pattern hedging history.
But would it fit a lock to keep out thieves,
Or offer entrance to a lover's nest,
A store of wisdom, or a treasure chest?
Through expectation sometimes promise weaves:
I hoped a second sign would help attest
To this, and so I waited. Nothing came,
And each day of my life has been the same.
To shape one's life (too late I see) is best.

The portent's truth comes to me with a shock.
My emblem is a key without a lock.



© Kevin Berland, 1999


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