Those days when laundry dried on the line,
I never minded making the beds. Sheets
baked in the sun drank in the summer

soaked up the scent of ripe tomatoes,
bouquet of drying hay, took on the colors
of changing skies and passing clouds.

Sometimes, a brief shower rinsed
them again. In second drying, they
added undertones of petrichor.

Line sheets were crisper than dryer sheets,
more spine and personality. With them,
making the beds became play. 

I tugged corners straight, smoothed wrinkles,
grabbed handfuls of top sheet in each hand,
snapped it out, set it sailing, to arc

then settle soundless as new snow.
I slid pillows into cases, heard 
their sighs as they arrived back home.