More from Featured Poet Eleanor Ellis
I forget spring
until I come out of the shower,
steaming hot and draped in a towel –
and I feel I could grab that periwinkle sheet from above the trees
shaking out the crisp color, and pull vivid cotton over gray lakes,
those great bodies of water that protest like children, afraid to be dressed.
their tentative watery fingers reaching for hardened banks,
carefree current caressing the craggy silence.
this seasonal business of laundry is about
rubbing soapy suds of sunshine on aged firs,
that grouse and grumble until the weary white weight
falls, leaving startled green needles
to pierce the fabric of the sky,
and start the earth weaving again.
I dress myself, dancing, dropping quarters on this spinning earth
my shoulder still cool, my socks still wet,
expecting the world to churn.
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