Like kites
sometimes, airborne.
The laundry room at Green Gulch, which is always comforting to walk through, on our way to soup and bread or to the gardens and the trail past horses to the ocean.
The laundry room at Green Gulch, which is always comforting to walk through, on our way to soup and bread or to the gardens and the trail past horses to the ocean.
The intensely yellow
laundry basket in the hall at the hospice on the St. Bernard Pass, reflecting
on the surface of the old polished gray stone.
The laundry line
under the pines, which made me happy to regard while writing and drinking cold
sencha tea.
The poem I’m not
remembering about dancing with a clean nightgown or shirt as dancing partner, in the moonlight or sunlight, and the delight in
that.
_______________
p.s. I''ve been reminded that the poem I was trying to remember, and remembered so insufficiently, is Richard Wilbur's wonderful "Love Calls Us to the Things of This World" _______________
Read it and rejoice!!
image: Christie B. Cochrell, Venetian Laundry
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