-This poem reflects on towels drying in the summer breeze, where ordinary household life becomes filled with warmth, motion, and the simple usefulness of the season.
They hang in rows of borrowed breeze,
thick with sun and rinsed in light,
their cotton holding afternoon,
in folds that sway above the grass.
Blue, and white, and faded green,
they lift, then settle, lift again,
as if the yard itself had learned,
a slower rhythm in the heat.
No field lies in this woven cloth,
no fruit, no storm, no singing tree,
and still the season enters here,
through warmth made plain and useful.
To take one down at end of day,
is to feel summer in the hand,
the sun kept soft in common threads,
the ordinary bright with air.