There’s a rhythm to it,
for one thing,
a hot, steamy pushing,
pulling against fabric.
Surging forward
like a ship’s prow,
smoothing out a sleeve here,
a cuff there, cutting through
wrinkled waves of cloth,
catching vapor on dry cheeks.
Making low the linen valleys,
the rough places plain
between buttons, under collars.
Turning rumpled cotton
into silk, like raw wood
planed to a shine.
And when it’s finished,
the room smells clean, starched.
Wondrous new garments
hang sleek and low
from every window and door,
while I sip coffee in an armchair,
pass admiring looks
to my fine, simple friends.
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What a gorgeous poem! You have made a lifelong non-ironer see the beauty in this art – thank you!
Aw, thanks Laura. Truth be told, I haven’t ironed in a long time, but when I do it’s very meditative.