things get disconnected
at the cottage in the beach-grass in March
a silken garment, a sari arched to dry
let loose from the clothesline, rippling as it rose
to kiss the clouds in a moment of
playful elation
Some years later, walking along the shore,
I recalled a whistling sound as it unwound
I pause to note even now,
the same rose pink is fashionable as it always has been
the color of love
