The sun’s been shining all day, and the field is drying. In the late afternoon, from the mouldering clothes drying area I cleared a bit of debris left over after an abandoned construction effort (the new generator shelter was finessed better with treated boards and hinges). This simple effort opened the way for me to re-visit ‘the blessings,’ an activity I christened that seemed to cause much mirth in our Writers Group.
The swallows are not yet back, but otherwise the sentiment of this poem feels so timely I must share it again. As I recall the incident, I’d been in a rather foul mood, but then I felt overwhelmed by the wonder of actually being there, in the little glade we’d planted, as the blue sky arced overhead. But apropos of no bad feelings, Carrie suddenly announced, say, it’s time for some blessings, don’t you think?
Hanging out the blessings In the sun-teased space beset by fellside breezes the trees a swaying circle grown from my aunt’s bequest: tall cedars break the wind; for colour poplar, oak, blue spruce; I hang out different blessings on waiting washing lines. I call them blessings now because of an epiphany when I was full of grumps at being importuned to do this now and then do that; begrudging, but I did because the clothes do have to dry; and yes, the air outside is free. So there I stood, clothes- peg in hand, as flashing swallows darted under nimbus clouds and bright blue sky — while life went on, as still it does within forgiving houses up and down the ancient valley — coaxing out a smile.
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