Do Your Laundry

A mountain grown of garments stained and worn,

A battlefield of socks and shirts unkept,

Doth summon me, a weary soul forlorn,

To vanquish grime with suds and water wept.

The sudsy bath, a swirling, cleansing sea,

Engulfs the foes, their colors dulled and dim.

The spinning wheel, a relentless decree,

Doth banish wrinkles, leaving fabric prim.

Then, like a knight upon a drying line,

Each piece I hang, displayed in sunlit grace.

The gentle breeze, a loyal hand of mine,

Kisses them dry, leaving no trace

Of former battles. Fresh and pure they stand,

A testament to patience, and to hand.