In the Doorway
--W. S. Merwin

From the stones of the door frame cold to the palm
.......that breath of the dark sometimes from the chiselled
surfaces and at others from the places between them
.......that chill and air without season that acrid haunting
that skunk ghost welcoming without welcome faithful without
.......promise echo without echo it was there again
in the stones of the gate now in a new place but its own
.......a place of leaving and returning that breath of belonging
and being distant of rain in box thickets
.......part of it and of sheep in winter and the green stem
of the bee orchis in May that smell of abiding
.......and not staying of a night breeze remembered only
in passing of fox shadow moss in autumn the bitter
.......ivy the smell of the knife blade and of finding again
knowing no more but listening the smell of touching and going
.......of what is gone the smell of touching and not being there