There’s always a blue door in our dreams,
in our former lives.
A cerulean blue door, with wooden slats
held by a small hook in the white plastered wall.
It opens, closes and opens, screeching like a sick
owl, such are the vagaries of age.
Once it was trammeled by stones and thieves
and a massive soaring boulder.
Mostly I remember Raoul Dufy’s fisherman
in the same cerulean blue, his nets and biceps.
And our three-year-old in the shimmering
light of the doorway, shouting at the gusting wind:
“Va-t-on! Va-t-on! Go away!”