Thursday, November 29, 2007


Though obscured by panes of cotton sheets
Harnessed between the ancient elms
I knew that silhouette
Mother hanging laundry in March winds
Head bent to the task
Mouth pursed about wooden clips not Marlboro
I did not help but hid and stared instead
Smelling the clean bleached day
Watching the billows of our bedding engulf her
Snapping and cracking like a whip

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