Your suggestion, to tug
the window from its socket, up
and wide enough
for the April evening air
to spill in. Then,
backs against the bed,
lifting our legs, the four of them
and prod them out
into the night, our skins
to bathe in the last
laments of a storm.
An onset of socks, perhaps,
you call it, with a grin
sweeter than any first blessing
of rain. We almost taste the petrichor.
Our fingers start to braid.