A daylily, ruffled and still
with folds of fresh linen (freshly
made bed) soaking up sunshine on
laundry-day line. She paused there, caught
helplessly on its anthers, struck
by the glory that withered while
she watched. ‘Why bother?’ she asked no
one in particular. Leaning
in, she traced the petticoats, breathed
deep of Arabian nights, veiled
virgins dancing on memory’s
edge. Eloquence beckoned on pale
finger with nail painted purple,
folding to hide philosopher’s
stone. Time passed. Conquerors and kings
and sleeping beauties, history
and fantasy, who she could be
in the morrow swayed and unfurled
in complex rhythms and secret
whispers. Her back straightened, rigid
barrier, and, closing her eyes,
she walked blindly back to the house.
Meanwhile, Melody Muses... 
Wonderful Poem 🙂
Thank you very much!
Lovely. Interesting how laundry and clothes lines influence our lives; in my case they get a bit bossy and domineering 😦
Ha! (Yours, too?) 😀
Yep.
Wow! Gorgeous piece.
Thanks Rob!
You are most welcome. Great poem.
Wow Wow Wow, Mel–I need to read it a few more times, as it’s like a good movie.
😀 Thanks, dear heart. I appreciate that…
This fantastical ambush in the storytelling then, turning herself back inside ~ well that’s exactly what we don’t do, we experience our fantasies within ! Wonderful analogy !
🙂 Thanks, Deborah!
Beautiful syllabic poem, Melody.
Thanks Lori!