A Burdened Balance

In the attic of this hundred year-old house
the gable window stares dry-eyed into the sun.

Years ago, careless and in a hurry to finish at the top
of a tall ladder, I painted it shut from the outside.

Now it won’t budge. With the heels of both hands
I press against the middle rail, push up hard,

again, a third time and break the seal—but
the stiles skew—the frame jams fast.

I hear inside the wall the window’s counterweights
recoil and clang together, bang against the wood mullion.

The brittle cord connecting them fails—they fall
and with them what I took for granted, the way things work

I’ve got to yank the stuck sash back, take care to keep it
true. The once rote motion of lifting and lowering, takes a knack

now. With the window free a burdened balance replaces
the ease the architect intended. I have to hold it open.

A breeze glides across my face like a transparent
wave enveloping a stove-in hull lodged deep in sand.

The new air billows into the attic; its turbulence
disturbs a wasp nesting overhead in the gable’s peak.

It buzzes drowsily down to the bright panes, taps
like a fingernail against the glass, drops to the sill

and darts to the light outside. I listen for the faint drone
to return, but it doesn’t; and I’ve no reason, I suppose,

to keep holding the hobbled window open. But I don’t
want to let the heft of it drop, to close a way of returning