Rusty Gate

By Matthew Hoffman, Staff Reporter

I stand here, withered by elements I can’t comprehend,
My feet are stationed here, and my feet are not able to move.
I watch the gardener as he prepares the grove that he’s prepared to tend,
My feelings are withdrawn even though I don’t have much to prove.

The overgrown patch of vines have swarmed all around my handles,
Struggling to budge, even though my freedom seems certainly futile.
I stay closed unless needed, but stay appreciative since I’m still my owner’s mantle,
Although, the natural elements are still nothing but vile.

I ponder my existence, what’s the point when I have no impact,
I contemplate if my role even matters, but the answer is right there.
The thought comes up each day, but I have to stick to the fact,
I may not be everyone’s entrance, but just being one seems quite fair.