Wind

You complain that your fingers ache

from the stiffness of new clothespins.

The spring coils are stubborn and the wood

is slippery. They grasp the hems

like toothless mouths and you find yourself

chasing colors to the ground. Parachutes

opening at the very last second.

 

You say that you like watching the fabrics

open like sails in the early evening breeze.

They flap and make you think of wings treading

air. You'd like to be a blue button

clinging by threads to an ever changing

landscape. All three grams of you could

anchor into a wrinkle canyon.

 

I won't even tell you

that we don't have a clothesline.