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Ironing

Always there, waiting to be done.
It reproaches me. But today I
begin it like a meditation, slowing down
to the sweep of each line

as the iron glides and smoothes,
moving beyond the drudgery of it to this
fully opened present: the room wide with sunshine,
the varnished floorboards gleaming.

Above the sharp edges of the town
the sky is dissolving into itself with a slowness
I follow and make conscious.
Each time I pause, tilting back the iron,

I create high up on the wall a honeycomb of light
as I carefully put away this folded minute.

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