Hanging out the Laundry

The few dead leaves rustle back and forth in the wind.  Neglect has caused the line to bite into the tree as it's bark folds around it. The smell of soon to be damp dead grass kisses my toes.  My feet, unintentionally tearing the dry covering, make a love path of exposed dirt.  The ball of my  bare foot digs into the not quite softening earth, as my weight shifts, baby and all, from basket to line to basket to line, lulling him with my slow deliberate rhythm.  The dark frozen earth gives calm peace as it rubs onto my bare skin.  The almost sharp wind caresses my face through my tangled hair, and the smell of last years apples finally looses it's grasp on the tree.  My fingers are just cold enough to know I am alive as I hurridly shake them to give myself a little more time to complete my task.  The ridges of my face taste the cold they are exposed to, and the baby snuggled deeper in his pouch.  The dead grasses make patterns on the ground that only living things can breathe, as the wind blows a longer strand against my bare ankle and life down my throat.  Mischievous eyes drink in the open world, safe in my presence, as the kids peek out from the hammock they have made out of an old sheet.  Little eyes exposed to the wild of the wind, as hidden bodies wiggle in the constant movement that is a child.  As my fingers burn with the coldness of my task, I feel the peace of working in the closeness of my children under the open sky, and the calmness, that I have carelessly trod on in the rush of life, washes over me like the wind.