Waking up to shapes

I wake up, aware
Suddenly of light, then rectangles
Windows
Geometric patterns
To the north a slice of a room beyond the one I’m in
Stretched out on the bed.
In that slice two chairs of different types
Back up against each other,
Above them, a slice of window
And beyond, across the street, 
A chimney, a bit of roof,
A bit of washed out sky,
A ragged edge of evergreen off to the left—the West.
One foot stretches out on the bedspread, the other firm on the floor.
To my right, another set of rectangles, one window shade up,
Letting in a glimpse of red brick wall,
Patterned with colors, a variety of brick reds, a few scattered blacks or dark greys, some almost purple,
Below a roofline that stretches upward
In what might be a right angle to the sky, a darker deeper blue.
Two windows with shades down,
Block the hot afternoon’s
Heat, light, intensity
As I awaken from a Covid-colored dream.
Geometry is not my subject.
But today, drowsy, weary of this virus and its morphing from one symptom to the next,
I find these rectangles of light and shadow oddly comforting—like a patchwork my Mother made for me.
Not that she did, but if she had.