Monday, January 29, 2007


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.


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.


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:

8:44 AM, February 19, 2007  

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