The sky behind my clothesline
is a bride's "something blue"
on this January day in Florida.
The clouds are her veil. I shake
a scarlet shirt to get the wrinkles
out then squeeze a clothespin
to the bottom edge, first one side
then the other. Next comes a pair
of dungarees, midnight blue. There
is a bit of a breeze, silent music,
to which they waltz. It's been years
since I was a bride, years and years
of hanging laundry to dry, caressing
that fresh, sunny, Downy proof
of feeling stuck. You might expect
this poem to be maudlin, a wordy
whine, but, I'll spare you because
the day is too lovely. I pick up his shorts
and hang them next to my panties.
I'm struck by how this simple act saves me.
They shimmy next to each other all day.