Dave Bonta's poem is about the small shock of looking at your everyday surroundings through something new. The speaker has a newly painted window frame, and through it the familiar place where they "work and walk" seems to appear all over again, as if the view had just been delivered. The word "appearing" matters here: the world isn't simply there, it arrives.
The last two lines shift from the outside to the inside. The May-day haze is "thin like the self," so the soft, hazy air becomes a mirror for the speaker's own sense of being. Judging by that comparison, the self feels light, faint, maybe not entirely solid or fixed.
The mood is quiet, reflective, and a little dreamy. There's no big drama, just a gentle moment of noticing. The speaker seems calm rather than upset, but there's also a hint of fragility, as though the boundary between person and world is as thin as the window glass.