Columbus Avenue and 63rd Street, looking west, New York City, 1935-1941 via NYC Municipal Archives
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 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, the 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.