the line

I see my mother
at the line.
the frozen rope stiff
from one pole to the other.
sheets, blankets, clothes,
all
heavy against the sky.
there may be snow on the ground.
she's in her boots,
a thin coat on.
the sun will come out
and it might hit fifty by three
o'clock in the day.
at five
as the sky darkens,
she takes a basket out,
removing each pin one by one.
folding
and carrying it all in,
smiling with red cheeks
to me in the window.