Open windows

I lift small hand weights over my head.
The rhythm of each movement,
the soft click of the weights together
is deeply satisfying.

Sunlight paints a perfect square on the carpet,
where the cat lolls in the contented way of cats,
waiting for the brush, artfully confident.

April’s softness touches my bare midriff.
My windows are flung joyously open, as if to say
look, we too have survived the suicidal winter.

The lake shines impressionist blue,
and I can see the first boats of the season
drifting left to right across my patch of water.

The park is greening, the footbridge beckons,
even the pavement exudes pleasure,
savoring the first clip-clop of sandals.

For just a moment,
all the world is good,
and I am happy.

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