She spent another long afternoon watching the laundry dry.
The wind blew slow and steady against
Her story hanging out in faded colors.
Frayed shirts talk about how hard it is
To get through the rainy seasons.
Patched skirts whisper how easy it is to give up prayers
That were never answered anyway.
There is a road that leads north,
But it’s lined with a thousand more clotheslines
Draped with similar rags like a Tibetan prayer chain.
Injustice from behind her eyes is clouded
By the cataracts, still undiagnosed.
Life is damp and this afternoon drags on.
Still, there is in the depth of her valley,
A small creek that keeps flowing,
So she keeps going down and washing her clothes.