the process of crocheting an
afghan is about just that
the process

you make an afghan looking
forward to the nights you will
curl up under it and relishing
the way it fits over your
legs when it's halfway finished

or thinking and hoping
how much someone you love
will love and appreciate
your gift of time and callouses

weaving a container for whatever
emotions you need contained

i realized this that first winter
deep in february when i began
my long nights of scrap yarn
desperately trying to piece
something together out of
the not knowing why
i told myself that this was it
the sum total of my works
the item they would fold up and
place on the table next to the jar
of my ashes come september
and it was done by march

a slow and roundabout way
of pushing myself through
the suicidal smog
smeared through my mind

my friends had blankets wrapped
around them that bright morning
of the anniversary we all cried together
my tears falling on my afghan

i made them each an afghan
plus a few more
always pushing myself
to look forward

lost count of how
much yarn i used
how many stitches
passed through my hands

but by the time the next
march came around i
had made or charted
out five more

to fill the void
clawing at my insides

spent a year making
myself another
in tight ripples of
time and television

and now
my fingers
slow
and stop

seven afghans
in two years
is an accomplishment
that might send the
head of even the
highest caliber of
grandma spinning

i have no more afghans
left in me to make

so instead i crawl
down into bed
two i made
two from friends
and one from
my mother

and lie
head pounding
eyes puffy
void of energy
in the space
between my afghans

Everyone can say they love you
Not everyone actually loves you
Love is something all humans know of
Love is something we live by
We write, sing, talk, type, paint, draw, craft, cook, sculpt: LOVE
But why do we insist on wanting something that hurts so bad?

At least I'm writing again
even though it's sloppier
than kindergarten scribbles.

At least I'm writing again
even if it's darker
than a moonless January night.

At least I'm writing again
even if it's not
easing any pain.

I don't write anymore.
I haven't picked up a pen in a year and a half.
The words are gone and I am empty.

I look at an autumn tree and don't see renewal and change.
I see the oncoming winter
and the cold depression it will bring.

I look at a sunset and no longer see the universal canvas.
I see the end of a long day.

I look at a stream and instead of imagining the lives of fish
I see only perpetual change.

I don't write anymore
and it's killing me.

She writes in seclusion
Despondent and morose,
Beckoning to your
Hearts and minds.
For hours at a time
She sits inside,
Having drawn her mental blinds.
No voice can reach her
But the one inside
Her head,
So what a surprise
For all to find
Her work was never read.
All the craft and all her labor
Lay wasting in her bin.
If someone had seen
The soul of this poet,
Perhaps lonely
She may not have been.