SunlightDapples the long white laundry line.Holding the plastic basketOn my sore hipI lift a battered, hand-knittedCream-colored dishclothAnd hang it on the line.A monarch butterfly flits about the yardAnd a daring mourning doveTries to settle herselfOn the laundry line.I watch the lineSwaying in the cool breeze.The sun dances acrossThe towelsAnd splatters them with colorLike an artist’s paletteDotted with creamy-yellow paint.Hanging the last towelI step back to survey my work.