The dryer sits silent in efficient electric
reproach.  It can’t be happiness,
this slow business of hanging sheets
on a cloudy day, one by one, untangling,
lifting, pinning in place, my bare shoulder
brushed by soft wet cotton, hanging them
knowing the brooding clouds may bring me soon
to gather them back.  In the sudden sun and rising breeze
the sheets flap, illuminated.  They relax their wrinkles.