washing line

The sharpened breeze whipped its way

Through her washing line,

Sheets of angel cotton billow out

Like wings that catch the glowing sun.

She sits below, upon her stool,

Gazing out towards the hills,

Her hands are gnarled from endless soap

And wringing out

But still she hangs the family clothes

With tender love and hate,

Wishing hopeful dreams

Never to come true.

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