Blackbirds

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 rancor, light dives down
among the turnips. I eat it with my stew.
Today the woman’s hands smell like roots. When she
shakes them out, they are voluminous, green.
All day they shade me from the sun.
The blackbirds have come to sit in them.
Since this morning, the wind has been enough.