Three Stone Steps

This is something I wrote in 2003 and a piece, I think, that fits in some strange way with gates without shadows and doors without knobs.

When walking out one day
in a seedy part of town,
I happened by an empty lot.
At first, I turned away, appalled at the junk strewn about,
soda cans, beer bottles, plastic bags, discarded fast food cups,
bits of this and that,
an old shoe, used condoms, and a broken trike.
Something though had caught my eye
and my imagination ...
Three stone steps growing from the weed infested dirt.

They beckoned,
those three stone steps,
so I picked my way through the litter.
They were old and scarred,
those three stone steps,
not smooth at all, nor level.

I stepped up one and instantly
smelled roses on the breeze
and heard the laughter of children playing --
I stepped down and looked about.
There were no children, no roses …
only the din of traffic
and the clatter of big trucks loading
at a warehouse across the street

I turned once more to the steps,
up one and then, another.
I turned, expecting …
but the lot was empty.
But there it was,
the sharp sound of an axe biting into wood
and the dull thud of split logs falling to the ground.

I wondered about the steps, were they magic?
Where would they lead me if I climbed all three?
What had they at one time been connected to …
a house, the home perhaps
of a pioneer who settled when the city was a village,
a mere settlement on this wild, Northwestern Coast?
Yet there was nothing left of house or home,
so perhaps there never was one.
But, why three stone steps
on a discarded city lot in a seedy part of town?

A car pulled over,
the driver rolled down his window.
"Want to buy it?"
I shook my head.
"It’s for sale," he said.
I shook my head again.
He shook his …
wondering, I suppose, about the crazy woman
standing on the second step of three
that led nowhere.

One more step and I was on the threshold,
and wafting through the open door,
the most delicious smell of baking bread.
And a woman’s voice, so like an angel,
Singing to her child,
"Hello," I said, reaching for the knob.
"May I come in?"
I took another step
and fell onto the hard and stony ground.
I looked around, embarrassed, and got quickly to my feet.
I brushed myself and left, determined not to come this way again.
Steps, you see, can fool you, especially if they’re built of old, uneven stone.
They fool you into thinking that where they lead,
you, too, can go.
but when they lead you back in time,
beware, you could be heading for a fall.

Vi
©2005