Folds of clean laundry seem eternity. The time I�m always looking for finds me. I am an Indian women bent over a woven basket, I am the mechanic untangling oil from steel. What I see is not what�s before me: Endless colors blended into white. The white of Not-snow but blank of mind. Spirit is free to soar for a few minutes, While my hands burrow into the cave of a sleeve, Righting what was inside-out. Minutes of solitary me, of fresh laundry Folded into white become an hour. I float in a haze of dreams that can be contained in such a short time, While my hands are so mechanically folding the laundry, Folding to the rhythm of the thoughts that lift up, away and over sensibility. And then I am back, and my thoughts are back to the laundry. |
| Dreaming Hour |
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