Half-Open Door

I do not know what to expect standing before this old house.
The dust, rocks, and leaves of my memory are no longer here.

The breeze is still cold, on what is now a paved road, clean
but stiff like your eyes, but your welcome is only for the pet dog.

Soon, it is going to rain and I am still here looking at you.
I can still see some trees left from my childhood but without fruit.

The breeze has gotten stronger, slapping me outright, as if demanding
why I had not moved on instead of lingering by the still half-open door.

It's alright. I will leave, you can close the door.