The windows are open
and the curtains
have been
blowing softly
all day
toward me as if
they are reaching out
for a hug.

The windows are open
and the fan
has been
slowly cooling
the warm autumn
air as it
drifts lazily in
toward me almost
as if
it is looking for
a last embrace.

The windows are open
and the cicadas
are crying
or laughing
or playing
or whatever it is
that a cicada
does
when it sees that
the windows to
a very strange place
are open.

The windows are open
and the goldness
of the sun
makes me sad in
a way that
squeezes my heart
and puts
a sort of
lump
in my throat
and
the coffee I brew
doesn't help
and
the goldness
just saturates
more
and
more
and even more
until
I can't hear
the cicadas
or hear the whisper
of the silky curtain
caressing itself
or the blades
of the fan
trying to slice
the sadness in
the air
before
it
gets
to me.