A bunch of waving words
All strung out on a line,
Hanging there, left to dry.

Some soaking in the sun,
Others pausing in the wind,
Some capering with fun.

Words whispering to one another,
Giggling softly, lest Launderer hear,
Bubbling bright songs in the washer.

Some stained with memories,
But being whitened after
Hanging clean in the breeze.

Some crying soapy water,
But waiting for the sun's rays to dry
Them, as it sparkles nearer.

All with special chosen styles,
And colors of brilliant kinds,
Scents reminiscent of summers.

Poets pinning them perfectly
To their places on certain lines,
Proud to present their industry.

The Launderer watches them by the tree,
Pleased to step back and see
The final mosaic called poetry.

-Anne B. Caitlin