Year One, Spring — The Gate
The gate wouldn't close right.
It hung crooked on its hinges
and scraped the walk every time.
I took it down,
planed the edge,
hung it true.
She watched from the porch
and said, "You didn't have to."
I said, "I know."
But I wanted the gate to close
the way a house should close —
safe, and sure, and quiet.
I noticed it was broken.
I notice everything about this house.
Your turn — his hand first, then hers:
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