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The door

Every morning something is on the doorstep
– a cat, a flower, a bottle of milk.

Last night there was a wind
that violently swept the street
but respectfully left the step
undisturbed. A small oasis.
A still life.

A bicycle is coming down the street.
The bell is ringing cheerfully.
In the basket a loaf of bread, a newspaper.
The smell of bread settles
on the step. The newspaper falls, lightly.

The step is full of promise.
Everything waits for the door to open.



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