Trust, an open door for the open heart,

Willing to take all comers based on a willingness to believe,

In them; some value; or just plain love.

xxx

A door with hinges marked welcome,

But marked on the inside,

Open arms or a lighted fire within.

xxx

May mine remain open,

With the hinges rusted over in love.

xxx

The Irish cocoon of my first ten years,

Remains the blankee of all blankees.

Transported to a bigger island,

Yet surrounded by the sounds, smells and people of the old country,

Endures above all.

xxx

Rosary nights, Latin masses, cold Christmas eves,

Cover me in an Irish liturgy,

Sometimes warm, sometimes cold,

But always present.

Protecting me from the Protestants who abounds outside its threads.

xxx

One September morning my blankee was ripped from me,

I twirled like a top into a world which was spun differently.

Suddenly naked, blankee was never fully returned,

As I appear to have outgrown it,

Merely by a change of school.

xxx

She was gone, like a womb I longed for,

But could not contain me,

A new encounter occurred,

Each day, new people, standards, experiences.

Most of which I did not like.

xxx

With the blankee gone,

Many years followed me,

Drearily passing, with little of note to report.

As I searched for a new one,

And tried to knit a replacement.

xxx

To no avail.

Ever present, yet disguised,

The details remain hidden from my initial step into the shallows,

Beguiling a deeper color not visible from the translucent spectacles,

Issued by Mr. Bocock, my science master;

xxxx

And a believing eye.