The Door's Own

So I told the door of collaborative colour. The porch owns a particle, and its sunlight brings a green rain. That rain chooses everywhere, with flowers that ooze forth, fade, then linger as memory intended. The sun slants every which way, and we become enamoured. Love is like a flock turned towards the wind, which has been brought to turmoil by shifts in temperature, which, you know, carries on the program. The porch is a garden, the garden is a shift, and shifting fills a bottle with cold water. The water is delicious because it satisfies our core. We are loving, expressly, in the green of the porch and beyond. So I invented a door, at least, my story did. My own faction, that is, and let green ignite its sensation: timely proposition and soothing thru the roof of the new place. We fare here, well. And the ferns are glorious in bedded luxury, with the bronze tinge in fall a note of transformation already anticipated. Roads flick cars and people elsewhere, here and there. Sun lifts masses of temperature to new regard. Moon stumps for more time, more glowing terms. And the rain met our gaze, filled puddles and doxologies, and startled us again. Such is the studied path, invented by the merest mention of a door.