up on the greenest hill stands our clothing line;

our clothes together, being blown by the crisp, fresh wind of the country.

as I take down each piece of clothing, the earth is filled with the scent of your plain white tee.

the one you wear often when I sit close to you; the one I occasionally steal when you’re not looking.

though quite simple and a bit frayed, I love to see you wear it.

Your cologne has painted the threads of your white tee.

I remove the wooden clothespins, close my eyes, and breathe in.

a smile grows on my face by a simple white tee.