It is bolted tight to the ground and painted to match the sky.
It wants to be filled by you on your way to somewhere else.
It exists now but not then. It has come to this space today, bright and clean, something to take pleasure in.
It is sturdy as worlds.
This is a frame.
It is nails and glue. It is plywood, just cut. It smells of fresh varnish and sawdust.
It is a window, four panes of frosted glass. It twists and softens our shadows while we wait outside.
What is outside: the clock tower, the baby carriage, the shoe print under the sill, the bottle of glass cleaner, the hard wrist, the greeting card, the laugh lines, the phone cord, the people lined up to come in from the cold.
What is inside: you. Your prayers. The silence of your mind in motion. The silence of dreams on pause, blurred block figures in mid-jump over the opened ground. The silence of seasons spinning through.
This a door. It is a doorknob. It is a glint of gold, flesh on metal, a turning, an opening up, a push forward. A shove.
It is not the same as a doorway. The metaphor is not that complete
It is not the same as a house. The metaphor is not that fuzzy, not that unfocused.
It is the same as a home, of sorts, if home is what you first set out to make.
This is a beginning. We built it for you. Now our efforts are prelude, small tokens to meet you on your way. Stones scattered in the path of your history unfolding.