Never Done

From Grandma’s headstone 
to the sand spurs in her backyard, 
she rushes toward sheets 
snapping in the wind.

Each discarded clothespin tumbles 
into the basket as Grandma sidesteps 
the dirt path between two wooden poles, 
hairs peek from each raindrop
on her forearm.

She casts cotton over 
both shoulders, not noticing 
the house, vacant now, 
with different locks
and plywood curtains.

As a storm rushes 
toward the plastic flowers,
faded and fallen, she folds 
rain-sprinkled washcloths 
in her grave.