I leave a window folded in the drawer,
not the weather, not the tree,
but the angle where its branches crossed the floor
and made a room inside the afternoon.
Glass remembers nothing by itself.
The hand must choose a shelf, the shelf a wall,
the wall a roof that will not trade the rain
for promises of shelter printed small.
Here is the plate, wet around its edges.
Here is the cloth that takes the water home.
A brass joint lowers toward its purpose;
the fern continues growing through the stone.
I wanted everything to fit inside a name.
Instead, a name became a doorway.
Beyond it, color waits without a wire,
and music keeps its breath beneath the page.
Not all the light belongs within the picture.
Some must remain upon the workbench grain,
showing the cut that missed, the distance,
the place where patience worked again.
So let the violet deepen into evening.
Let gold be what the hinges need.
I carry neither sky nor captured thunder,
only this room, its openings, its seed.
When morning lifts the lid, may something
stand intact: a cup, a shadow, one pane,
and room enough for someone else to enter.
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