The man at the gate wears black and does not weep when he sees me
His cheeks are robust and his windblown hair is blonde and free
The birds rest and are silent specters in the trees
Around his neck is a golden chain with a small bone white key
His mouth is open, speaking soothing nonsense day and night.
The man at the gate sees all that lays before him,
by night or day,
he holds the sun in thrall and it lights his way
He makes his own restless path, searching with asphodel in his hand and weeds in his teeth.
He comes from the west,
the setting sun keeping him is shadow,
hiding him from the eyes.
I smile that rare smile
when I often see him
and he waves back at me and his eyes shine with the brightness of cascading suns and comets.