It’s brief—the window opens for a few minutes
at a time, the grey shifts and within it’s
something close to actual: the unrehearsed
okay, the lift of the grey—not reversed
but paused. I catch it like a shift in weather,
I adjust to the good before it comes together
into the closing, I live inside the window
while it’s open. Brief is still a window.
The small window of the good—I take it
every time it opens, I don’t fake it
or discount the small. The five-minute lift
is still a lift. The small window is the gift
of the possible inside the grey.
I collect them—the small windows of the day,
the brief alive, the actually-okay.
The small window of the good: I stay.
It’s not the cure—the grey surrounds the window,
will close back after. But the good, the meadow
of the possible, is real when it appears.
I use the evidence—the small window clears
the case that the good exists, that I can access it,
that the flat is not the only address, it’s
not the whole property. The good is real—
I have the small windows as proof. The feel.
I’ve started keeping count—not formally,
just the noticing. The small windows: normally
three or four a day if I’m attending.
The grey between them makes the small windows’ ending
no less real. I’ve changed how I evaluate—
the good I have, not just the good I’m late
in having. The small window of the good:
the inventory of the still-possible. Understood.