GATE of the threshold stone, hung delicately at the edge of a bowl of rock. She appeareth as a slender arch of gilded sandstone standing alone above her amphitheater, the far mountains pale beyond the opening, the low sun laying gold along one whole side of her. Her office is to be the door that proves the wall unnecessary: she encloses nothing, divides nothing, and yet all who come to her pass through, because a gate asks it and always has. The wind made her over ages by taking away everything that was not a gate. She is the most fragile sovereign in the gilded country, and the wind that crowned her will someday close the door.
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