The Linens

I dream of becoming the linen sheets hung in the wind,

Basking in the warm sun of a spring that promises summer

With words that taste like honey and have no shelf life.

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I dream of what it would be like for the wind to fill me,

To slip into every pore I possess and make me clean

With the smell of dandelions and daisies and blue skies.

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I dream of the storm on the horizon and rushing hands

Plucking me from my best day with a sense of urgency

Because to be hung on a clothesline is to be loved.

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It is to be given to the sky, handed over to sunlight.

It is to be embraced by white clouds and southern winds.

And I dream of being hung on the clothesline like a bed sheet.