A door knob gleams against twilight,
holding the essence of distance.
Twinkling skies and dark horizons
captured in its mirrored surface.
Noiselessly it guards both realms,
the known and unexplored path.
Each turn a pivot of the night,
a hinge between what might be.
Fingers touch the cold brass, pause,
as if the cosmos hesitate, still.
Beyond its sphere, the stars burn,
quiet witnesses to small secrets.
Revolutions align with hours,
and all who come or go heed it.
In the end, it remains, waiting,
a silent sentinel gleaming.