I walk out to the clothesline.
My skin hangs there inhaling the hail
flying horizontal from the horizon.
I listen to the sound it makes flapping loudly
like a gull whose mate will never come.
I bring my skin in to soften it by the fire.
It is now calm and docile. I slip it on.
Leave my skin wrinkled. Don’t iron it out.
A wrinkle holds a library of stories
being read aloud, one by one by Time.
I caress the crease of your presence
etched in the fabric of my being.
White-haired dandelions perk up,
catching a whiff of your scent.
Your smell carries your steps up the stairs,
through a threshold of tangled fear,
coming gently to nestle within the
porch swing of my stiffened hips.