she has no time for knitting or crochet or embroidery. she washes
away all the doing, all the indecent hustling, the buying
and the planning; each day is a beggar’s day. she practices
silence, speaking now and then in soft, soothing tones. she reads
and writes and scrubs. she prays and commutes. she eats
bean soup and dollar store crackers, and tries not to complain, even when
her feelings become her thoughts. and still she writes, even when
the words only exist as unexamined emotion, even when they don’t come.