Song Washing

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.

About bydda88

I love poetry, writing, especially writing as healing, as touching the sacred, being touched. And place, places dreaming us, us them. Coasts, rivers, canyons; the ordinary things too, the small things, gestures that reach out.
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