Poem written for my mother

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Since April is Poetry Month, I dug out some old poems I had written. This is one I wrote sometime in the 1970s, after I had finally gotten a dryer. I came from my memories of Woodward Avenue.





Sometimes
When I'm folding clothes
Still soft and warm
From the dryer's heat

I see my mother's hands
From long ago
Cracked and red
The squared-off nails blue

Hanging sodden sheets
And underthings
Outside to dry
In a raw November wind.