This is by one of our recent visitors to the house;

My Provencal Windows
They give new meaning to the words “picture windows”. There are two of them. Companions. Two windows in the bedroom of my provencal summer home.
When shut, during the slow hot days of this dry, coloured summer, they are functional. They keep my sanctuary cool; my bleached white cotton sheets that smell of lavender and lie waiting to accept me - tired and golden. Cool; my pale yellow marble tiled floor that soothes my rough brown feet as if softened and polished in anticipation of every step.
Yes, during the sunlit hours my bedroom windows understand what I need of them and are happy to accommodate for when I reach for the milky blue and flaking shutters after I rise from sleep they close willingly, as if perhaps they are nocturnal and so are ready for sleep now too. They sigh quietly as they close, bringing quiet shadows with them. And there they stay, happily guarding my sanctuary - seeming to know how it pleases me.
But it is at night that my provencal windows reveal their secret. As the sun sets on this hilltop village, turning the homes and the cliffs from which they were built different colours of red and yellow, orange and purple; as the swallows swoop and dive, serenading us, a prelude to the pronouncement from the bell tower that day is done - my windows wake slowly and sit patiently, knowing that I will come for them.
And when I do, when the sun has winked its goodbye and the breeze begins its gentle caress - my provencal windows are ready.
First, the shutters. I turn their sturdy and reliable iron latches and in agreement they open wide and joyful with my push. The glass doors next, joining their sisters dutifully, lining up against the solid rock walls of the house, proud to unveil what lies beyond.
And then I see. My windows. Side by side. Great and gracious frames, selfless in their stillness. Content to exhibit the shining brilliance of their night sky. Like a pleased mother.
I can’t take my eyes off of their picture. The cerulean sky, deeper than blue. Richer than black. More purple than azure. The crystal stars that seem closer somehow, as if watching me too. And the moon. The glorious moon. Aloof yet kind it beckons me shyly. Somehow aware that I am in need of a lantern, it obliges.
Why does this portrait call me? And why does it wake me when I would otherwise sleep? It’s as if I opened too, with my windows; opened what I didn’t know was closed. And as I am drawn in I suddenly become aware of dimension. That I too, am part of this landscape. It is my community and I am enveloped.
My provencal windows give me an awakened view of our sky; our everything. They know. And they wait patiently for me to discover. They know I long for it.
They have shared their secret with me until morning. And I will never be the same.