Welcomed by glowing west facing curtains,
One hundred year old windows rattle and the silk lifts.
"Stay" I hear.
Cradled by the give of a secondhand futon,
I watch the maple's light and dark flicker behind painted trees.
"Oneness" I hear.
Warmed by my respite in winter light,
To the song of knowing wood, knocking within generations of paint.
"Almost" I hear.