gate

when my pen died this morning,
I knew that something had to change
huddled over the table
dug my pen into the page
each second followed
the next and that the past is unvaultable
I find the future is a dark, rough wall
I had better follow in its shadow
until I find that old gate
then—I will pass, breathing easily
a moment of darkness
then, the sweet smell
of the coming fields