A poem for her

 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.