Remembering a Summer Bike Ride

Shade of a spruce, printed on this old barn, built long before the tree was even a seed.

I saw closeup the old farmhouse door. Streets and avenues intersect in its weather-checked paint. A blemish mares the luster of its porcelain knob, like a crater does the face of the moon.
The key hole is a dark mysterious orbit of an ancient skull through which I cannot peer. I try to imagine the splendor that lies behind. Light that falls through bare windows, illuminating wide planked floors. Old ,rose patterned paper curling off the walls from the humid weight of summers past. Switch plates of old Bakelite.

I reach for the knob, the door is locked.