Nest

Manure scented grass girds the breeze slipping through
a slit of window, a mere two inches that I open
to breathe my first bit of fresh air since October last year.

Everything is changing: the house a pair of lungs,
field mice running away and new sparrows in the awning.
All the doors shifting in their sills.

My husband’s muddy boots thawing in a puddle on the porch
near a bench swing. Not yet it sighs into its ceiling hooks
and chains. It’s still ten degrees too cool to be outdoors

so I pull my sweater tighter, inviting the chill
through the window, as sunlight warms a spot on the couch
large enough to coddle my body—my husband’s body

small enough to also fit into its space. Alone, I hold
our two bodies, tuck my fingers beneath my thighs,
build a nest in some plausible corner of my mind.