March Prompt #5
(Especially for Maggie)
Not far from here in place or time,
there is, in a closet, a box.
A perfect place for mice
with yarns of purple, blue, and green,
too many colors to name.
Soft yarns, striped ones, sparkling ones,
neat in balls and skeins,
stacked by size in pleasing array.
But late at night—when else?—
when the woman of the house is asleep,
they come. Not mice because of cats,
a tribe of tiny folk. Who knows
where they live in the day?
Their work is simple.
By sunrise the box is a mare’s nest,
a gallimaufry, salmagundi.
The Tanglers will not be distracted
by good seeds to sort from bad.
Bowls of milk left for them would be
drunk anyway by cats, tiny garments ignored.
Oh, to have the focus of a Tangler,
a single-minded dedication to a task.
Any task at all.