Threshold

There’s someone ahead a ways,
who crosses frozen cascades
and jumbled frost-heaven roads.

A swift gait leads her forward,
chancing strides, yet quite stable,
led with her quiet intent.

Birds rise on the icy air
beyond the dying maples.
Cars sputter and clunk by her.

She reaches the gray glass gates,
just a dozen steps ahead,
and holds open the cold doors.

What does her smile imply,
her curious countenance
and that silent proud gaze?

I may never understand,
but still pass her with a nod
and wonder about her world.

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