things my father told me

why do this
I wonder myself

because

painful even
to hang
like clothes
on a line

this vulnerable
collaging of
words
telling a life

and sometimes

gasping for air
chagrin
calling my name

but not listening

because

things my father told me

and one was

how very beautiful

a clothesline

indeed
a work of art

never one for convention
for he saw
what others did not

a stunning display
of imperfection
flying free
dancing in the wind

clothes hanging on a line

like a string of kites
or a mariner's flags

every sort of color
pattern and texture

unpredictable
mismatched
and imperfect

and in embracing
imperfection

finding beauty

this permission
to be ourselves
and know
it is enough

and in others too

the days of our lives 
pieced together
and hung
like clothes on a line

exquisite

in the everyday ordinary

from the garden

too soon

gardens lush

changing guard

like clockwork

ready or not

and we

left wondering

how it changes

these seasons

this time

we hold

in our hand

one moment

and then

it is gone

like a thief

in the night

awakening

sometimes suddenly

and sometimes even

years later

to regret

and wondering

why

the neglect

and the ridiculous

oversight

of not

taking time to savor

the beauty

of summertime slow

and drinking deep

because

it is so good
each moment
and each day
given attention to

and the season
even now

stretching

into another

and time falling away

but right now

this moment

waiting

under a summer sky