Portal

March 29, 2026 Poet: Janna Mitchell Artwork: Oak Grove by Stephen McMillan

Portal

Gasp!

I recognize the entrance—perfect.

She is looking up at me with glinting eyes of adventure.

Take me, take me, take me in.

I grab her hand, and we are running through the late autumn mist and curling dance.

Flick, stretch, glide—jumping, energized, free.

My little dancer and me,

Grasping both her hands, I twirl her—she squeals.

Faster, faster, faster.

We become the trees, the light, the mist—grey and green,

dancing strong

Collapsing, laughing, melting down, stretched on our backs now,

looking up at the light, inhaling hard, catching our breath from the wild.

We melt, melt, melt into soil soft.

The grandmother holds us.

Be still—breath slows—rest.

Listen.

So quiet we can hear the deep roots purring,

humming together, my child and me,

humming to the under-dream time.

The bliss of our dance reverberates

from birth—spring bloom, blossoms, buds, and green—

to summer—hot and heat, a buzzing time—

then autumn—slowing, golden gleam.

We hold each other now in winter silence,

turning life, minutes, days, to months and years.

Pass.

I see you grow—through all the seasons, the chills, the dreams, the work of all this life.

I am with you.

Always.

even in the old and gray.

We smile between branches.

I take your hand

back out into the gallery.

We stand as one.