⭐ THE UNPOLISHED SEASON — Poem VII
The window opened with more noise than necessary,
a long, uneven groan
that sounded less like weather
and more like a complaint
it had been saving all week.
The frame shuddered once,
as if reconsidering the whole idea
of being a window at all.
The light came in sideways,
not soft,
not warm,
just a tired strip of brightness
that landed on the floor
like it had missed its cue.
It illuminated nothing important –
only dust,
and the corner of a chair
that wasn’t asking for attention.
A small breeze passed through,
and the window responded
as if it had been struck by news.
The glass rattled,
the latch trembled,
the whole frame performing
a kind of exhausted melodrama
over something
that barely qualified as air.
In the afternoon,
it caught my reflection
and stretched it
in the least forgiving direction.
Not symbolic,
not meaningful –
just the kind of distortion
that happens
when a surface has given up
on accuracy.
Outside,
the street offered nothing worth framing.
Inside,
the room didn’t ask for a view.
The window stood between them,
uncertain,
like a worker assigned
to two departments
that had both forgotten
to include it in the schedule.
By evening,
the glass had stopped rattling.
It settled into a heavy, unclasped silence,
like an actor who finally realized
the theater had been empty for hours.
I didn’t reach over to shut it.
I just let the draft
settle across my ankles –
unapologetically cold,
unapologetically there.