April 20: Wringing

Wringing

The clothesline opens its arms
to the sun; its clothes hang
like teardrops. Grass grows
fat shaded below. Her laundry pins
hope on the unmangled slap of wet towels.
Each sheet and pant line
up with undocumented precision,
of a metronome beat, pressed down
smooth down the line. Each
wrung and folded over,
clasped with wooden soldiers.
The wind blows and snaps
the day done. Vigorous
removal in the threat of rain,
the portent of folly.