On the string swaying across the small backyard,
behind the only house in the long sight
there were pieces of tattered cloth freshly wet from the washing machine
of all color shades
with excerpts of memories I made all my life
compressed in one-liners and even some forced haikus
as if I was organizing them
On the tea table centering the garden lay a neat pile of folded clothes,
I pulled out a standing out shirt in the pile,
Rich black, with hints of white
The text on it read,
"The ones that should be stashed away deep"
Something flashed noiselessly in the distance and a wave of cold air brought down the string of cloth
I looked the opposite of the sunny sky side
A storm was approaching.