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.

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