Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

Oh, how they blew like vast sails in the breeze,

my mother’s wet sheets, pegged hard to the rope

of her washing line. There was always hope

of dry weather and no need for a please

or thanks between us as we hauled them down.

Whether to make the fold from right to left

or left to right, to tame the restless heft?

My job to know. I won’t call it a dance

but there were steps to learn and cues to read,

the give and take of fabric passed like batons

in a relay race. She was my due north.

Her right hand set west, mine tracing the east,

we closed the distance, calmed the wayward weight,

bringing order to the billowing world.