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)
Enchanting