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.
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.
posted by J.B. Rowell at 9:52 PM
6 Comments:
What lovely laundry it is too!! Wind wringing out the moisture, and the birds...well, the birds, hopefully are just singing.
The birds just add to the art, like a Pollack painting! :)
Your poem reminded me of Tess Gallagher's "I Stop Writing the Poem."
Love the image of a poem hanging between two clothespins.
I can see that January - not laundry instead of poems, laundry = poem.
Thanks!
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!
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
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