Today's prompt was to write a poem about a "machine." Whew!
My great-great grandmother must have set aside
a whole day of her week do the wash.
Rising early and pumping water from a well, then
carrying the buckets to heat over a carefully stoked fire.
Adding soap then
soaking and scrubbing,
beating and rinsing,
rolling and wringing,
and finally –
I wonder at how intimately she must have known
each pair of pants and each dress and each shirt –
how her hands knew each button and strap
just as they knew the flesh that lay beneath.
These things I think on as I push a button to brew
my one perfect cup of coffee and
as I press “start” on our washing machine to get
a quick load of towels going and
as I flip the switch that lets the top down on
my spunky orange convertible to
head out on a quiet drive and watch a most glorious
pink and orange sun rising over the fields.