A Wrinkle in Time

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. 


I kiss the crease your hairline makes in the
open range expanse of your forehead. 
Your eyes come to settle in mine.
Our wrinkled time collides. 
We are together again, my love. 
This wrinkling of time is gracious in this rumbling of dusk.
And as I turn away to dance with a twilight of stars,
I feel your hand land on my shoulder like a homing pigeon. 
The white haired dande-lions roar
wildly unabashed as the stars descend.
Time arches its crumpled spine then
Photo by SHVETS production on Pexels.com

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