This is my response to Magpie Tales visual prompt #43. Go there to find the responses of other writers.

It is here, before the old doorstone
that you stop, listening for life
simmering behind cold panes.
The heat of hearth eases
through mortar cracks,
melting the cold of snow,
but you stand, still, on the threshold,
unsure of the tendering of welcome.

6 thoughts on “threshold

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