Dave Bonta's "Opening" begins with a small, striking observation: the spot where a house once stood looks far too small to have held it. The speaker stares at the footprint and can hardly believe it contained three floors of rotting furniture and typewriters clogged with dead beetles. Those details are specific and a little grim, and they make the lost house feel heavy with years of neglect and decay.
Then the poem turns outward and upward. In the woods, a beech tree has spread its limbs into a gap beside it, filling the space as if it had every right to. Nature doesn't mourn here; it simply grows into whatever room is available.
The speaker's feeling is quiet and thoughtful rather than sad. There's a sense of wonder at how much a human life can shrink once it's gone, balanced by calm acceptance that something else moves in. The mood is still, observant, and faintly hopeful.