A Whiff Perchance


It’s quiet, except for the wail of the wind.
The sun sneaks rudely behind the clouds,
Those moody vapors swirl
lifeless brown leaves haplessly around.
I pin my wash to the clothesline,
Fighting each gust, each thrust.
I find this combat irresistible.
A sense of accomplishment arises
And punctuates my soul.
Once the job is done,
I peek through the window,
Catch a glimpse of the flap,
The sculpture, the shapes.
My essence captures it like a camera.
I can’t wait until the wind performs its task.
Dry and fluff my sheets, blankets,
Towels, and bed wear.
The bouquet will accentuate my being.
I will drown into its perfect, pristine, sterile scent.
An unquenchable aroma fit for a queen.

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