Monday, January 29, 2007

Laundry

The mommy poem hangs
on a line between two birch trees
overlooked unless you happen to be
opening the wooden pins to let it fall.
Or maybe a photographer attentive to taut
fabrics in wind, lit by its own sun.

6 Comments:

Blogger Pat Paulk said...

What lovely laundry it is too!! Wind wringing out the moisture, and the birds...well, the birds, hopefully are just singing.

7:45 AM, January 30, 2007  
Blogger J.B. Rowell said...

The birds just add to the art, like a Pollack painting! :)

4:38 PM, January 31, 2007  
Blogger January said...

Your poem reminded me of Tess Gallagher's "I Stop Writing the Poem."

Love the image of a poem hanging between two clothespins.

8:02 PM, February 08, 2007  
Blogger J.B. Rowell said...

I can see that January - not laundry instead of poems, laundry = poem.

Thanks!

10:34 AM, February 09, 2007  
Anonymous Grandma Nancy said...

May I offer that perhaps instead of Laundry = poem that laundry = love which is the ultimate poem. Hanging laundry on the line is a spiritual thing for me - time to touch the garments my family wears next to their skin, time to be grateful for the sun, and the breeze to dry the clothes, and a time to bring into my consciousness that with each load of clothes I hang on the line instead of tossing into the dryer as if merely a chore, is a gift to future generations. And to think there are many communities where hanging laundry on the line is forbidden! Can't wait for Spring!

9:03 AM, February 12, 2007  
Blogger J.B. Rowell said...

Hi Nancy - you have inspired me to try hanging my own laundry - which is something I've never done or had time to do . . . check out these beautful photos of hanging laundry:

http://www.amishphoto.com/gallerylaundrylines.htm

8:44 AM, February 19, 2007  

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