Tears slip behind doors. Slammed. Sorrow’s shelter from Storm.
Love reigns behind doors. Quiet, stone still. A soft head against a shoulder.
Doors close. Locked. Listen as our footsteps flee.
Doors whisper, tell the stories of a life.
I’ve fallen hard for old doors. Chippy paint, cracked glass,
hand-hewned architecture . Bespoke.
~ A Sunday Moment
• Photographed by my sister x
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A soft place to fall, some poetry, some stories some random thoughts but most of all a place that I hope blesses those who stop by.
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Doors could say a lot.
If only they could speak!
Maybe it’s good they can’t!
I love old doors too, with all their stories.
Nice job Nancy 😎
Sent from my iPad
>
Gorgeous photograph, Leigh.
x
Aha…doors…interesting. I had always heard about talking walls, but talking doors could speak volumes.