At The Age of 59 1/2 I Climb Through a Window in Iceland
because the key sticks in the lock
and we can’t figure it out
my 24 year old daughter
who spent her childhood
squeezing through a cat door
and ruining a window screen
letting boys in and out
immediately climbs to the sill
unlocks the pane, and departs.
I, on the other hand, larger, more frightened
sit, one leg in the house, one in the yard
squeeze my hiking boot
through gingerly
land on a cellar door.
the administrator of the guest house
is displeased with us
gives us a strict Icelandic lesson
in locking and unlocking
blames the weather–of course–
for the swollen jamb
and us for our incompetence
but with grudging admiration
for our initiative.
as for me, I’ve been re-born
onto a windy street by a windy bay
where everything seems content
to knock me over
and the sun
sits on the horizon
patient and intent
as a midwife.
Miriam's Well: Poetry, Land Art, and Beyond 
i love this poem. no wasted words, direct, humorous, gaining my confidence at the adeptness with which you both got in and out of it.
Are you there Now? Is there any daylight?
Was there earlier this winter–about 6 hours of dusk/dawn light.