We made a promise to ourselves long ago
(maybe not this lifetime, maybe not this life-sense)
that we would never pry each other
open like bolted doors, like the bars
of rusted gates—that we would wait
for permission to come into each other
like trusted friends, like people we had longed
so long to see again. Without that, or care for
how many more had paced outside before
(just like I never know where birds go,
until it snows) it must be that we know
somewhere, in the air beyond the bough,
there’s a living left for us, somehow.
About the Poet
Katy Santiff has written poetry in various forms all her life. A fan of meter and rhyme, she loves lines that hypnotize the reader with their sound. She believes in densely packed poems, preferring them to be mouthful when read aloud. A lifelong Marylander, she loves waterside living.