On a whim…

by David Wilkerson

For Beth — whose patience taught me that love waits longer than sorrow lasts.

The maples had gone black behind the drift

and made the clearing seem a larger thing.

I’d meant to walk the fields—a simple shift—

to test how cold a New England noon could bring.

But snow is democratic, hard and bright,

and soon forgot the path I thought I knew.

The sun was dropping low behind the white,

and every landmark vanished from the view.

I only sought the frame where my life stood,

the simple door that kept the cold outside—

a common latch of oak and humble wood,

where I had shelter left, and room to hide.

I scanned the distance for a weathered plank,

some sign a man had built and made things fast,

then saw a portal standing on the bank—

unmortared, yet determined it would last.

It asked no fence and offered no address,

and was too narrow for a barn’s high trade;

but in the heavy, deepening wilderness,

a door is proof that someone once had stayed.

I wondered if the frost had blurred my eye,

or if the wind had opened it and fled,

for here beneath the bleak, encroaching sky,

the heavy pine was slightly pushed ahead.

It was ajar—a crack of golden light—

that promised comfort warmer than the sun.

It did not hold the shadows of the night,

nor ask me what old tasks I’d left undone.

I leaned into the wind, and looked within,

and knew the truth that only time can bring:

the waiting room where journeys must begin,

and every winter proves the final spring.

And in that space where light and shadow met,

a warmth beyond the power of a stove,

there stood the face I never could forget—

the smiling peace of my departed love.

She offered nothing but a patient look,

no shout of warning, and no word of fear;

as calm as pages in a well-read book,

she only waited for my stepping near.

I knew that threshold was no cellar wall,

nor any kitchen where the kettle sings,

but where my wandering ceased, and where the tall

white silence takes the measure of our things.

I will not turn back now to track my prints

into the dark where fading hearths remain.

If I am standing here, it only hints

that soon I’ll see her face beyond the pane.

Then let the blizzard bury where I fell.

I see the welcome offered, clear and plain.

Hello, my dear. I see you waited well.

I only pray my stiffening hand finds

the wood

and pushes.