Two Odes to the Clothesline. With love, from my sabbatical.

Two Odes to the Clothesline. With love, from my sabbatical.

I. Hold on

The sundried clothing is starched, almost as if the cloth will crack
like the cliff-clay figurines left to dry on oceanside rocks.

The sun is not soft, per se, and
neither is the ray-kissed fabric.
There is no such thing as dryer sheets for a clothesline.

No matter how long, now, the towels stay folded, the bras in a drawer, the dresses hung
they seem to hold the light like photosynthetic plants
Hundreds of years could pass, I believe, and still the clean sheets would taste like summer,
would infuse you in Vitamin D as I wrapped you up in them,
would whisper precious wonders of the everyday world, not to be forgotten.

II. A Haiku 

spiders spin so swiftly
on wet clothes hung on the line
to dry in the sun.