Fortunate is she who knows how to collect the sun and the wind in the clothes of her beloved.
Who wakes and peers at the dawn and wonders what the day
holds… whether a rainstorm
hides out somewhere in the midday and whether the morning
sun will be enough.
Whose hands move under cool morning water as she scrubs a
sock, stretching
its fibers long against the rough brush as yesterday’s
bunker flows brownly
down the drain. Who drinks her coffee and packs lunches and
braids hair
and rinses plates with jam and egg yolk, while the cycle
hums in the
background. Who then takes her basket, full, to a spot of
sun, of
quiet, (because clothes must dry in the quiet) and,
setting down her basket, she bends down to
lift out one piece
by one
piece.
