Moon up, it’s so much like sun it looks warm
Out there in the gloaming, mind seeks a disentanglement
Of wiry twigs, a carding of how things came to pass
Figuring and straightening fibrous information
The leaves pile up like neglected children
Lost things lie on shelves and in drawers
The moon fingers them with long rays
Even makes dust special and lovely.
In this box everything is in order
Nothing has ever strayed
It’s not under the bed.
I don’t need to open it
It’s what I am telling you.
Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved