the ground left as muddy, the laundry as unfolded, the work as undone as the week before we found it.
not with a whimper, but a self-congratulatory pat on the back and deaf ears to those of us who had worked for it;
and the meddlers, or course, go on their high winds;
like a yawn that does not fill the lungs, or an aborted sneeze, or a television cliffhanger meant to prime viewers and producers for a newer season never to come;
how, indeed, must the folders feel now;
Yey, through force alone and naught a lick of strategy they blunder;
through what avenues does the hurricane wish to aid in laundry almost fully folded, and how must the folders feel when the many helpful hands spin like helicopter blades tilt skiwampus into the dirt and mud to slap our faces and out of our hands the hard earned work which such a disconnected construct may perspectivelessly observe as our kind of work which they can direct through actions they have not yet considered?
a lifeblood thought to grow instant re