Five sparrows
stirring
inside a rhombus,
springtime.
inside a triangle,
a blind
dog.
the rhombus and the triangle
keep
bumping
into each other
inside my twelve
by fifteen
rectangle.
there, on the clothesline,
sitting side by side,
chatting away,
are my wife's
sleeveless blouse,
my Bermuda shorts,
and my daughter's
ripped jeans.
by noon,
the triangle
slips inside
the blouse.
the rhombus
into the pocket
of my Bermudas.
and through the
rips and tears
of the jeans,
spring descends
into my twelve
by fifteen.
my wife's blouse,
my Bermuda shorts,
stare on it
astonished.
five sparrows
are playing
on the open terrace
of the morning.
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