A window centered over the kitchen sink
Looks out upon the birdbath, the feeder,
All the way past the chicken coop to the
Red barn behind which trees feather the horizon.
Today the birdbath bears a lid of snow,
A few chickadees address the feeder.
The cherry trees that line the dry lot fence
Are bare armed, bleak as gun metal sky.
My hands delve deep in soapy water.
China and silver clinking a weary hymn.
The scrub of cookie sheets or skillets
Grates like November lurking out the window.
The window frames each season. That’s
The reason farmwives demanded placement
To gaze upon the bridal wreath in bloom
Or hollyhocks upholding the old wellhouse.
Dishwashing invites contemplation. When
The hands are occupied the mind escapes
Its practical routines and lounges out
Into a landscape frozen as today’s
Promised grace of one more Thanksgiving.