She waves her hand dismissively,
makes untidiness a grace –
“Things find their own place to be
look how the leaves grow on the tree,
seek to feel sunlight on each face”
She waves her hand dismissively.
Victim of lost glasses, and lost keys,
letters that disappear without trace –
things find their own place to be –
and offer serendipity –
a photograph, a scrap of lace.
She waves her hand dismissively
as I arrange things tidily,
set every object in its place.
Things find their own place to be
I think, when it’s all down to me
to sort, and throw, and clear this space,
recall her wave dismissively,
let things find their own place to be.
Laura is hosting Poetics at dVerse tonight, and thinking about order. She has introduced me to Elizabeth Jennings, a poet who wrote in a very structure way, despite her own chaotic live. I have chosen to use a form – I think I need a bit of anchoring at the moment.