the gray door

the door to the studio was painted gray,
a privileged color if i ever saw one.
i knocked and knocked.
it was unwilling to open.
even in the face of multiple entreaties
or vocal threats, it did not move.
hiding behind it,
the mercurial woman was almost the same age as me.
she occasionally took pleasure in fishing the local stream,
but still would not open the door.
outside, against a large Sycamore tree,
her heavy boat was overturned in the yard,
it's keel a cement line meant to harness effort
when maneuvering around rocks in fast current.
i had an idea and tried the window
at the neighboring property.
a contractor had installed it only last week.
he said it was a celebrated picture window.
it was to the front of a biggish gabled house
on a hill facing the sea.
i faced the sea when i was at the window.
i pulled the sides and the top and the bottom,
but it, too, was unwilling to open.
frustrated, i had an idea.
i pushed her boat across the lawn
to the water's edge and stopped.
i spent a night thinking about the door and
the window, while sleeping with the boat.
at first light, i went looking for a set of paddles
and found none.
i soon walked back to the door to the studio.
it was painted gray and i began to knock.