I cannot understand my affinity for closed doors, 

for standing inside and looking out a window.

There is magic here, 



but rarely have I rolled a blanket out over the pine needles and the woodland flowers,

stared up into silvery fir tops and watched the birds hop heedless from slender branch to slender branch.

Only once have I fallen asleep there to the chip-chip-chirrup of scolding chipmunks and woken to feel the invisible watch of silent creatures.

There is wonder here, if only I would claim it.



Instead, I am a spendthrift,

lavishing time on ordering my possessions, 

staring into screens,

sighing over the heavy weight of cloistered obligations.



These many weeks the berries have been ripening

the bees have packed their saddlebags with gold,

the tired apple trees have once more swelled into sweetness,

the wild roses blossomed pink,

and died.

And I have polished windows;

I have chased away dust from under the bed.