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The closed door opens and fruit petals snow in the cold spring wind. Blooming violets shadow the straining green lawn. Sleep-bidden double daffs nod their heads where no congregants gather and the lifeless ash of the burnt scrap pile appears ablaze. Public-shunned privacy thither and hither reveals our clothed fears in this turvy-topsy time as we scurry forth and back in future place. Old as a newborn I rise to the challenge courageous and present; in adolescent dotage I want to be rocked-held by my mama. The open door closes. Everything new is old again.