death is a door | nancy byrd turner

death is only an old door
set in a garden wall;
on gentle hinges it gives, at dusk
when the thrushes call.

along the linted are green leaves,
beyond the light lies still;
very willing and weary feet
go over that sill.

there is nothing to trouble any heart;
nothing to hurt at all.
death is only a quiet door
in an old wall.