It’s sunny here today. Still cool to cold but I’ve hand washed my clothes and have them on the line in the sun and breeze.
I like the squelch of water, suds and clothes as I wash them. Rinsing. Straightening them as I peg them on the washing line. Another squeeze or two. Let them drip on the grass, the dog watching from behind the screen door.
I can’t just let her out in case she goes to the front and gets out on to the road. She’s still a puppy. And there are no gates here, only those in the mind.
I am reminded of a line from Orpingalik in a book on Inuit poetry titled Songs are Thoughts, when he says: when the words we want to use shoot up of themselves – we get a new song.
Perhaps a poem will emerge, perhaps not. I am still soothed by the squish of water, the sun angling in, the week rinsed, held up to dry, be worn again.