A Whiff Perchance
It’s quiet, except for the weeping, wailing wind.
The sun sneaks rudely behind the clouds,
Those moody vapours swirling,
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
Catching 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,
To 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,
A ravenous aroma fit for a queen.