My father’s shirts hang out in air so cold it burns.
Rigid as marble drapery, and still as her footprints.
Consider her stiff blue fingers wrestling the pins
that pinion the arcs of their wings, blind falcons.
The clothesline’s rusty wheels screech their call
at the hard blue sky every Monday of her life.
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About riverwriter
Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else?
wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/
Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
All you need is someone scraping ice rain off a car windshield and you have a Jam!!
At those temperatures, there is no rain. Remember this comes from a time that I walked through five feet of snow, ten miles up hill both ways to school and back, in a tee shirt . . .