Windows Open

What if I kept the windows open? What a terrifying venture, for someone like me. Some artists always have their windows open. Their windows are open all year, even. Like, it's winter, and probably time to nestle in, but there they sleep, snow falling onto their pillow. Or it's summer. Time to close up and run through the yellow fields! But, still, some will stay by the window. Anything could come through, they yearn.

I don't have faith, I've learned. I assume no one is coming and no one is listening and no one cares. I delight to be proven wrong and suffer shame when I've shut and locked too soon. Rather, on time. A friend arrives, after all, taps on the pane. It's too late though. It's never a punishment. It's my little log cabin. The only one I have. With my candles and nightgowns and quills and view of the frozen river. Everyone is invited, but not everyone can make it.

I was never good at sports / save the games for the girls on the tennis court