Knock

At the quiet hour when night leans low,
A soft tap—knock—breaks the hush of snow.
A hand unseen upon the oak,
Three gentle beats, a whispered spoke.

It may be friend with news to share,
Or stranger bearing doubt or care.
Each reverberation, a pulse, a sign—
A promise that somewhere, someone’s thine.

So listen close, let wonder grow,
For every knock can seed a new to know.