No idle path
or highway lacks some incidental door,
some ancient padlocked gate;
and our ears record
the sound of stealthy hinges,
even in our dreams.
For every tick of time,
a door must close,
a tumbler click,
the key withdrawn;
and still another door,
another key . . .
interlocking moments of eternity.

Strange! that it should be
the human hand which turns the stem
that locks our destiny;
and in the chambers of the mind,
the multiformed keys of chance
are of our choosing.

     *      *     *

The hours are locked
to future hours.
Events are prisoned in their depths
and wait the certain key
that frees them
to change the pattern of the soul.