Laundry hanging out on a line is a simple thing, but it has the effect of an almost imperceptible exhale deep within me. There is an earthy goodness to it – a practice that is most likely as old as time. On a slower day earlier this Fall, I had laundry on the line. Obligations that day were few, and I told Fred that I’m savouring watching the laundry dry. Later that day, he needed a ride to a truck and he prefaced his request with, “I know you’re busy watching the laundry dry, but…”
Spain
Pennsylvania
I wrote this poem for another venue but decided to share it here as well.
The Wash-Line
When from my window I glance,
I see line stretched from tree to manse.
Wind catching its hangings, all fresh and clean;
My mind is drawn to days of has-been.
Like a thread is that dancing clothes-line
Stitching days long ago now to mine.
Shirts, pants, and towels and sheets
In bright sun, their dampness retreats.
Sweats, dresses, and undies and socks,
The dryer, humble line playfully mocks.
Linens for table, napkins of cloth,
Bleach white in the sun when with line betrothed.
The weather, the hanging may mince;
On occasion, brings extra rinse.
Winter then Spring, Summer then Fall,
The trusty wash-line bears witness to all.
Waving flags surrendered to breeze,
Or dried in the grip of a freeze.
If I look quick, it seems I can catch,
Weathered hands unpinning a batch.
Simple, everyday though this task may be,
There’s a balm to be had in this common lee.
A linking from those hands to mine,
Sweet kinship, this cord can entwine.
Close to home
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