This is what I know.
That a window left open when
even the trees shiver with premonition of
sorrowful weather,
it will suppress you.
It will make you wish you had noticed,
make you wish that you had been warned.
You will close your eyes a thousand
times, feel the groove of the wood against
the palms of your hands,
hear the decisive thud that assured you of
closure.
Until the pang of knowledge forces the
window betrayed again.
And, when you burst through the kitchen door,
find the papers curling at the edges,
a river of consequences running across
the floor,
you will wish you had never pretended.
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