-This poem reflects on opening a window in spring and allowing fresh air, light, and the living world to reenter the home and the heart.
The latch gives way with little sound,
and morning enters, cool and mild,
it lifts the curtain, stirs the room,
and carries earth and rain inside.
A bird call falls across the floor,
the scent of damp and growing things,
moves softly through the quiet air,
and settles in the waiting house.
The light is thinner than in June,
but full of kindness all the same,
it touches table, wall, and chair,
as if to wake what winter dimmed.
No bloom leans in through sill or screen,
no branch has reached its summer weight,
yet something opens with the glass,
and lets the living world come near.