She fancied crochet for making throws.
She painted ceramic cats and fired
Them in her kiln for gifts she shared
On birthdays and other holidays.
Her skeins of yarn and tubes of paint
I’ve stored in boxes and plastic bags
Whose contents I have marked with tags
And set aside for sale. I want
No clutter of things to cloud my mind
When I remember her, sweet sister;
If there be gods they’ve blessed her
Above all other humankind
I’m certain. Let the word escape:
Her spirit persists in things she saw
As beauty’s material in the raw
Ready to smooth and scrape in shape.
Let these things lie quiet and still
She is not here to make of them
The objects she saw in her dream
From bits collected and made whole.