Domestic Rituals Poem by Sonny Rainshine

She always washes the linens on Mondays.
Glancing out the back door
she regards the billowing sheets
and hears the distinct Snap! they make
when the wind fulfills its duty.
Like enormous white flags they
wave to her as if to say:
We surrender.

She knows the ritual by heart:
Locating the wicker basket she wove herself,
cutting stems of lavender from the kitchen garden
to place between the layers of the sun sweetened sheets,
acquiescing to the hot fragrant fabric
that caresses her face as she plucks
the clothespins, one by one.

Invariably the wind will claim one as his own,
as compensation, and send her on a mission after it,
toward the lilac bushes.

She wishes she might prolong this cleansing,
this baptism in ordinary things,
to feel always as clean, as yielding, as free
as these white banners flustered by the wind,
released from hesitation and reticence.
She yearns to say:
I surrender.