Figure It Out

She separates the denim, whites, blues, purples, 

Delicates, leathers, cotton. 

Careful not to mix them.

Machine never stops spinning

Until the tiny, drawn-out task is complete. 

As simple as the rocky road ahead— 

The road leads to a cliff, 

Where you must jump blindfolded. 

No more coming home to a fresh flower scented bin

Of perfectly folded clothes.

The white, pristine laundry machine stops

Turning. 

The time has come.