the photograph, black and white,
the sheets
blowing
in the wind stretched out
across the line,
held down
by wooden clothespins. it feels
cold.
it feels like nineteen fifty three.
the shingled houses, chimneys
full of smoke.
the wooden fence, the white
paint peeling, a dog
walking by without a leash.
the grass looks green and lush,
soaked in rain, perhaps.
and who stood there must
be inside, blush faced from
the wind, her dress up to her
knees, taking a warm towel
to her cold wet feet.
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