All points east. Forceful gusts have taken up the slack clothes line, compelled a laundered horizontal. I recall a childhood dread the full-blown napery whip-twisted with fearful faces or phantoms outstretched catching blind runners in a suffocating grasp. Blouse and trouser pneumatic torso parts of dumb, fluttering beings as if some grisly massacre was on display. But it's only the toss and pitch of March winds a swirling fusion of colour the flap-slap of textures like Tibetan prayer flags - Please God, let me see another Spring.
An ekphrastic poem from Marc Flatternde’s “Wäsche im Wind” (washing in the wind) for Merril’s Poetics prompt: March Wind
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