now brownish-gray from the footprints
of the minuscule ants that march across it.
On Sundays my damp laundry dances
in the humid breeze
suspended by clothes pins
as weathered as their roped partner.
Hung between two thin-barked trees,
t-shirts frolic upside down as they gather
an organic sent of sun and earth.
They are in euphoric relaxation.
It's Monday and yesterday's clothes still hang.
A storm is coming and yesterday's clothes still hang.
The wrathful wind and roaring rain batter the trees
who try with every dirt-bound root not to falter.
Their fate founders as they snap in unison.
Trees, rope, pins, and clothes
make their way to their muddy coffin below.
No one was home to pick them up.
No one came home to pick them up.