Some pleasures come undiluted; on October mornings
when the sun aimed its last, cumulated gold
over our depleted grape arbor, the baked raisins
turned black, wizened solar memories, the air at the edge
of town coming on with a sauterne bite of cold,
and the Kentucky sky high in a preternatural, almost
a Tiepolo blue, my mother would go to the open
kitchen door, with one of our two surviving tablecloths
under her arm and, leaning out, would shake out crumbs.
Even when there were not crumbs, the ritual of morning
from last night's supper was her excuse to feel the air,
and look on past fences to the bold, emblazoned woodland,
and unlike her eyes to the wanton circumference of the world.
I saw her shaking the white linen she had washed and ironed,
gazing beyond. It was a great chance she had every day
to do something ritualistic and free; and like wine
poured over me, intoxicated credence, faith.
That a shook cloth had in it all that distancing.
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