It eats the house.
Great splotches of blues, greens, and
killer reds
have me cornered,
the fleeing one in white
never white enough
to blind.
This thing,
this self-rising wonder,
covers my arms and legs and
eats the air.
Am I the smiling one at the clothesline,
singing as she hangs?
Funny--how Thoreau never said it--
Walden was made possible
by his mother,
his weekly washerwoman,
wringing out pants
for her
drummer boy.