Poetry Thursday

On a clothesline between two pines

Summer and the cool of early morning,
a faded version of the moon
still in the sky,
then just the driftwood-gray clothespins
and the white of the towel
forgotten on the line,
the night's damp still in it,
and not much else
except that somehow we'd crossed over,
opened our eyes
or splashed our faces at the sink,
that there are stones to touch
and thoughts we couldn't,
and now unfolding chairs:
canvas snapping into place,
wooden legs settling
into sand under us,
that all of this could happen,
that it could stop,
not just dreams, but sleep itself,
rain, mist, evaporation.

-Jane O. Wayne