Yes, I have fallen in love with these women, who take delight

in the curve of a washing line, who tell me about their peg bag

made from an old pair of jeans. There are doll’s clothes drying

in a corner of Finland, and baby shawls in Massachusetts.

Martje in Belgium sends a blessing: I wish you joy, satisfaction

and little sadness. Rita posts a painting, and somewhere in Poland

quilts that must smell like sage dry between high trees.

Velvet in Naroibi shares vintage pegs she found in a thrift store,

their naked bodies plain saints ready to carve the day’s sunshine

into fresh pillow slips. Yes, it is the humdrum, the every day,

the fall of time measured in damp linen and white shirts, a devotion

of odd socks and long gardens and cramped bathrooms photos

of their own mothers, grandmothers bleached in time, old teddies

hung up by the ears, bed sheets caught in sunsets that billows

into a wedding dress. Yes, I have fallen in love with these women

who delight in pressing a still-warm towel to their face, breathing

in its smell, burying a day’s disappointment in reliable folds.

Even now, Leigh in Wales shows steam rising from her frocks

after an unexpected thunderstorm.