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
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