there are dancers on my washing line
arms aloft, reaching for
gently spiralling snowflakes

stiff soviet ranks at dawn,
they skip at noon, with
a hint of polka

mid-afternoon gusts
lift a hem here, curl a fold there
allegro furioso! booms the cosmic maestro
and the tempo swerves to the wild side

ecstatic choreography, stilled at last
by the fall of night

(Janet)