The evening folds its purple map
and leaves one corner open.
Rain collects there,
as a word not spoken.

We build a room from things:
a table, bread, a lamp.
The window keeps the weather near,
but nothing here is damp.

A crooked seam runs through the cloth.
We do not pull it straight.
It gives the cups a place to lean,
the quiet somewhere to wait.

Beyond the sill, a sparrow shakes
three silver drops from one wing.
The gutter answers out of time;
we let the bells ring.

No road is promised by a map.
No roof can hold the sky.
Yet hands can carry what they made
when passing clouds move by.

So keep the lamp beside the bread,
the hinge beside the door.
Give every wandering note its seat,
then listen once more.

The night arrives without a crown,
in lavender and blue.
It sets its unfinished basket down
and leaves a space for you.

Tomorrow may rearrange the chairs,
or tilt the picture frame.
The room will hold its shape
without remaining the same.

One corner lifts. The rain has stopped.
The sparrow tries the air.
We leave the window open;
the room is everywhere.