She remembers the clothesline just off the kitchen window.


Lined against the bushes of lilacs all blooming in the spring.


Straight lines of coiled wire touching brown decaying wood post.


Each week she would see the lady of the house hang lovely colors,


different shapes and sizes of shirts and pants and little girl’s dresses.


Blues would mix with the pinks and reds, but the whites were always


separate from the others so not to allow the dye to run on them. 


Deep in the summer south the hot wind would bend and sway


against the flag of colors left out to dry until right before afternoon sun.


She then would gather them and fold and lay them in a straw basket


bringing them into the house; the smell would be of the out of doors.

copyrighted:  2016 CMM


I hope I will always wake in tulip sunshine
among the fragrance of green grass
growing near flowing rivers
while breakfast sizzles in
cast iron skillets
with biscuits
on cobalt
If this
goes away
in my memory
and leaves me for
another day in changed
places, I want to still wake
in tulip sunrise and still smell
the coffee brew to another time but let
not the reciting bobwhites forget to sound; so I will always remember.
copyright: CMM 2005