The Secret Gate
behind the secret gate,
a trail to the river,
steep,
the path impossible by truck or car,
ancient,
winding this way and that,
always down,
closer and closer,
until you can hear the river before you see it,
a special gate to me,
unknown but to a chosen few,
who have walked the fence lines,
making repairs,
unused for years and years,
the wire rusty,
the grass growing over the faded trails,
a secret,
I have loved to keep,
a gate,
all my own.
Douglas Polk
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