A day of wordless misery,
thorns in the heart
that refuse to budge.
No matter, I’m keeping company
with myself, though hurting,
redeeming time that was torturing me.
My grandmother’s craftwork,
I suddenly see,
her fanciest knitwear
a stance against her melancholy.
This pattern wants only rhythm from me:
no judging, no knowing,
just moving on
into a future. I’m working three
axes. First a new personality
made from my patience.
Second, a scarf
composed in calm,
a respite from my usual self-harm.
The third is my finest.
Look! I’ve unpicked
myself from my worry, a delicate stitch
into the present. No one can see
this last. Mindfulness charges the air,
arrays me in intricate gossamer.