Mountain Flowers

When I was sixteen,
pickup truck, load of hay,
there was nothing I’d rather see
from the window than women’s underwear
hanging on a backyard clothesline.

Size didn’t matter, nor color,
but I preferred to see them on a mountain ranch
because of the ravishing big sky
and the long range of open space
for the wind.

And I’d think, sitting back in my seat and
peering out the window, of all the seeds
being carried away, and the dust, and the
broken-off, fragile blossoms of wildflowers
from horses grazing. And I’d think of the wind
that caressed goats and sheep in spring
on the sloping high meadows.

The bras and panties flapping outside
on the sunniest days. I saw a pair of pink ones
near Fort Collins, the hot breeze causing
a slight shifting from one leg to the other,
and a little twist at the waist,
as if they were slow-dancing.