I suppose each of us creates our own world and surrounds it with a wall or fence and guards its entrance with a door or gate.
I see glimpses of these worlds in my neighborhood where things join imperfectly or have decayed in time.
They are slivers of private worlds seen in the space between wood warped by the seasons of years.
Imperfect pieces of a jigsaw picture of a person’s life.
Sometimes a door opens as I walk by and I see inside.
And I see them look and I wonder if they know that they are glimpsing my world.