Ruth Moose

All our life so much laundry; each day’s doing or not comes clean, flows off and away to blend with other sins of this world. Each day begins in new skin, blessed by the elements charged to take us out again to do or undo what’s been assigned. From socks to shirts the selves we shed lift off the line as if they own a life apart from the one we offer. There is joy in clean laundry. All is forgiven in water, sun and air. We offer our day’s deeds to the blue-eyed sky, with soap and prayer, our arms up, then lowered in supplication.

The snail at the edge of the road inches forward, a trim gray finger of a fellow in pinstripe suit. He’s burdened by his house that has to follow where he goes.  Every inch, he pulls together all he is, all he owns, all he was given. The road is wide but he is called by something that knows him on the other side.