-This poem reflects on the quiet intimacy of a spring night entering through an open window and gently reshaping the room within.
All evening, the room held the air,
a cool spring hush, a borrowed field,
the curtain moved with every drift,
as if the dark itself could breathe.
Outside, the branches touched the glass,
not hard, just close enough to hear,
and from the far end of the yard,
a late bird gave one final call.
The bed, the lamp, the folded clothes,
all seemed less finished than before,
as if the open window made,
more room for silence to be kind.
Through that small space, the night came in,
with damp earth, leaf, and distant rain,
and sleep arrived the way spring does,
by letting something living enter.