Semaphore

April 17 2012

The first day

it feels like spring,

I will race through the house

empty hampers, snatch towels from their racks

strip linens

gladly pick-up-after.

Then wash, rinse, spin

fill the wicker basket

man-handled, damp,

out

into fragrant air.

And with clothespins clamped

between my lips,

test the line

that sat all winter.

Dew lingers,

tiny perfect spheres

clinging to the wire

catching light.

I whip it out

spooling spray,

whirrrs, and returns

on its squeaky wheel.

The line sags in the middle

with every colour imaginable,

snaps

in short sharp gusts.

Fresh laundry

flapping in the breeze,

like Tibetan prayer flags

a colour guard

marching past.

The semiotics

of laundry

in spring.

A semaphore of happiness,

signalling all my neighbours

good weather, at last.