Wanted to play. She wandered the house
Her parents, Memory and Language,
Owned, and ended up in the attic
Heaped with their dustiest belongings.
Imagination found some scissors
And racks and racks of moth-eaten clothes.
She said, Now I can make what I want!
And she set about cutting up cloth.
She had in mind a costume drama,
Part ghost story, part miracle play,
In which she, Imagination, starred
As the creator of a portal
To many new and fantastic worlds
That looked suspiciously like dreaming
About old and less fantastic worlds.
She had no trouble with the portal,
But cut as she might, she couldn’t make
The old clothes into clothes of new cloth.
All one rainy, dreary afternoon
Up in that attic she snipped and stitched
And snipped some more, until a vast pile
Of scraps lay heaped on the attic floor
Like hillscapes of musty confetti.
Exhausted, Imagination napped,
Then woke and crawled down through the trap door.
The casement window banged in the wind
When Old Mother Witch Experience
Blew in to pick up the mess and hang
New and repaired costumes on the racks,
Since Imagination would come back.
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