Here's a poem I wrote in 2007 about this simple chore, entitled "Summer Sheets."
Summer sheets, hung to sun dry,
are not the same as winter sheets.
Winter sheets are fluffed in sterile dryers,
to be crisply folded before they settle sleepily into the
ready for their next use,
tucked among spare blankets and extra pillows.
But summer sheets wave and flap in the gentle wind.
They snap and dance as I hum happily,
pinning them in chorus lines to dry.
They tease, slapping my behind or my face
when I lean down to pick up another.
I nuzzle into their sweet, cool fragrance
over and over with deep breaths;
they tenderly brush my hot cheeks.
Between their rows the day is fresher and
I can hear my children playing in the sandbox nearby,
but for a moment,
I’m wandering near a shaded mountain lake
with a cool zephyr wafting me wild roses.