I hang out linens
on a bright raw morning.
The sun sneers,
unwilling to warm up to me
or the season,
so I retreat with moist numb thumbs.
All day I hear the sharp snap of sheets
whipping in the cold spring wind
that tries to rip them from the line.
Dark stick silhouettes
claw along tangled cotton,
but orange cases roundly pillow
with the season’s spite and glow
in a row of summer moons.
In the afternoon I bring them inside,
dry and warm,
and fold up the sweet clear air
caught within their threads.