there I sat,

under the oak,

knitting a sunflower,

taller than most,

whose stem was

a moonbeam,

stitched mostly

in stars,

when a satchel

of moondust

fell, smack,

down from Mars,

and spattered my work

with galaxy dust

and it rampantly rose,

as I’m sure it must,

gathering speed

as it grew,

out of control,

trailing my yarn,

into the night sky,

where it covered the moon

and fed the wild geese

as they passed on their way

to wherever geese go