I hang out linens
on a bright raw morning.
The spring sky sneers,
reluctant to warm up
to me or the season,
so I retreat with moist numb thumbs.
All day I hear the sharp snap of sheets
whipping in the cold gusts
that try to rip them from the line.
Dark stick silhouettes
claw along tangled cotton,
but orange cases pillow
with the season’s spite and glow
in a row of summer moons.
Late in the afternoon I bring them inside,
dry and sun-warm,
and fold up the sweet clear air
caught within their threads.

©2009 by Heather Moore Niver