Crone Poem by Jacqui Thewless

I fold the towels by night.

The longer I stay and age,
the more I’m like the moon:
patiently waning, waxing
lyrical for white sheets.

I place them,
multi-coloured, on a shelf in the bathroom
and smooth them flat.
A vase of flowers
punctuates the right-hand
corner of a small table.
I read,
before I sleep in a small bed, in the small hours.

This kind of thing is my handwork:
painting with objects in rooms of your house.
It's not
rocket science.
It’s what I do:
from me: for you.