Smalls?

I peeped over a garden wall to be entranced by this washing line of snowy  undergarments - whether male or female attire I could not determine but they were generously proportioned.
Were they pinned out yesterday, Monday, the appointed day for doing the laundry, or a day late? The sun was shining so they'll soon be dry.

There's something very appealing about a well-stocked clothes line, taking advantage as it does of the sun and wind - none of your noisy greedy electric dryers.

Here's a poem by the American poet Ruth Stone ,1915 - 2011. (She had a difficult life but it came good in the end. Something about her and more poems here.) How doing something mundane can lead to a flight of thoughts that connect  with  far-flung ideas.


Things I Say to Myself While Hanging Laundry

If an ant, crossing on the clothesline
from apple tree to apple tree,
would think and think,
it probably could not dream up Albert Einstein.
Or even his sloppy moustache;
or the wrinkled skin bags under his eyes
that puffed out years later,
after he dreamed up that maddening relativity.
Even laundry is three-dimensional.
The ants cross its great fibrous forests
from clothespin to clothespin
carrying the very heart of life in their sacs or mandibles,
the very heart of the universe in their formic acid molecules.
And how refreshing the linens are,
lying in the clean sheets at night,
when you seem to be the only one on the mountain,
and your body feels the smooth touch of the bed
like love against your skin;
and the heavy sac of yourself relaxes into its embrace.
When you turn out the light,
you are blind in the dark
as perhaps the ants are blind,
with the same abstract leap out of this limiting dimension.
So that the very curve of light,
as it is pulled in the dimple of space,
is relative to your own blind pathway across the abyss.
And there in the dark is Albert Einstein
with his clever formula that looks like little mandibles
digging tunnels into the earth
and bringing it up, grain by grain,
the crystals of sand exploding
into white-hot radiant turbulence,
smiling at you, his shy bushy smile,
along an imaginary line from here to there.