Gleaners

From my window

I watch her work,

muttering as she stoops

and rises, rises and stoops,

methodically, relentlessly,

bending and pulling,

filling her bags slowly

in the weak morning sun.

Through crumpled cans,

old papers streaming ink,

thick bricks of refuse,

covered with a clotted

melt of cream, she threshes

until finally she discovers,

imprinted with deliverance,

her happiness.

Against the pane,

my lips intone with hers

as we breathe out

the mantra of the poor

and offer up our thanks

for daily bread.