the holy day of monday
the day of making all things fresh,
the day of making old things new,
when the dirty clothes of yesterday,
were cleansed in motherís love,
the clothes were then hung to dry
on long strung lines of weathered cord,
there to while away the daylight hours,
to play with the breeze,
to warm in the sun,
to catch the fragrance of summertime,
to tell the story to the neighbors of the worn out cloth
of papaís shirts and mamaís skirts,
and the patched again knees of growing boys.
Yes, Monday was a holy day for us back then,
when godliness came as cleanliness, well-scrubbed
the day when life began reborn,
washed and dried,
starched and ironed,
folded and placed in well-ordered drawers
there to be worn each day when it came their turn
in the inevitable unfolding of the week to be,
so that it might be laundered all over again,
when another Monday came.
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