Folding Sheets

Marge Piercy

They must be clean

There ought to be two of you

to talk as you work,  your

eyes and hands meeting.

They can be crisp, a little rough

and fragrant from the line;

or hot from the dryer

as from the oven.  A silver

grey kitten with amber

eyes to dart among

the sheets and wrestle and leap out

helps.  But mostly pleasure

lies in the clean linen

slapping into shape.

Whenever I fold a fitted sheet

making the moves that are like

closing doors, I feel my mother.

The smell of clean laundry is hers.

-o0o-