Chanteuse by Anne Britting Oleson

The child listens to her mother sing
and does not know how beautiful it is:
the mother pegging laundry out in the dew
of early morning, singing of stormy weather—
life is bare, gloom and mis’ry everywhere.
The child leans against an apple tree
and runs her fingers through the new grass,
leaves fluttering overhead pale and useless
as a baby’s hands. She hears a sadness
she doesn’t understand and shies away from it.
Shirtsleeves catch and billow in the breeze,
a bedsheet flaps. The child turns her cheek
to the rough bark, fighting against
the thickness of tears clogging her throat.
The mother’s voice moans like the wind:
I’m so weary all the time, so weary all the time.