Meet Mrs. D.

I work in the places where daylight grows thin,                             

Where the ordinary ends and the stories begin.                            

Some days I make marks with a pen or a thread,                          

Some days I just find what the threshold has said.                 

There are doors for the edges and lamps for the dark,

Small red-capped watchers that still leave a mark.

There are monsters a child once decided to draw,

And mushroom-capped folk who remember the law

Of the garden at dusk and the hearth after night —

The quiet that stays when you turn out the light.

This shop is a workbench, a threshold, a keep.

Things arrive, get their names, and decide they will sleep

In the places you put them, or wait on the sill

For the hour when the ordinary world has gone still.

If you’ve found your way here, then the door was ajar.

There’s a chair by the workbench. Come sit where you are.

The light is still changing. The stories still spin.

I’m Mrs. D. Welcome. Come in, and begin.