by Lisa

I opened the window up here today, the one at the foot of our bed.  The one she sleeps near must stay closed, without a screen to keep her from falling.

These windows have opinions.  Some of them don’t care whether they ever slide up or fall down, lazy, needing a stout stick in the frame to let the air in.  Some of them care very much, and stay shut.  A hundred years of rain and paint makes them impossible to persuade otherwise.

I want to open them all, reach a long arm inside, between panes, to clean the cobwebs away.  Wind blows in the dust, pushes in the leaves that might turn to good seed-sprouting compost in another year.

And these gutters grow the prettiest maple sprouts every spring, babies forever, never much past August’s drought.

What a house we live in, settling deeper into itself since we left it standing still but not, still easing and leaning where it wants.