Blackbirds — by Susan Mitchell Because it is windy, a woman finds her clothesline bare, and without rancor unpins the light, folding it into her basket. The light is still wet. So she irons it. The iron hisses and hums. It knows how to make the best of things. The woman’s hands smell clean. When she shakes them out, they are voluminous, white. All night my hands weep in gratitude for the little things. That feet are not shoes. That blackbirds are eating the raspberries. That parsley does not taste like bread. From now on I want to live only by grace. In other words, not to deserve things. Without…

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The Evolution of the Alphabet

I’m 72 poems into my next collection. As usual, only about 50 will make the cut, which means I want to write 90 or so, to create a good variety to cull from. I’ve moved through a quiet period in my writing this winter—I stopped going to my weekly writing group on Sundays, just took notes as ideas and thoughts surfaced, and wrote down dreams, like these— I wear shoes that cause hurricanes … I can change the colors of walls by singing … I am talking in sign language and it turns into hula … I am creating huge, human-sized, stained glass insect wings for a gallery show … I…