Hinge

On the quiet door of morning’s hinge,
A silent swing begins—
Metal sighing, softly pinching
Old oak to welcome day.

It bears the weight of comings, goings,
Each turn a measured breath,
A tiny fulcrum holding fast
Between the threshold and the world beyond.

In rust‑kissed patina it recalls
All hands that turned it—children’s laughter,
Lovers’ furtive glances,
The postman’s steady knock.

No grand decree, no trumpet’s call,
Just this modest pivot, humble, true,
Where every entrance, every farewell,
Finds its steady, swinging cue.