The thirteenth loop

When it comes to life and sewing
I never could follow a pattern

I leave every canvas splattered

I refuse to color by numbers

It feels to much like numb or

Even worse

Doing what I should

I've always been too busy creating to learn

Too busy thinking to understand

To busy presenting to be present

And to broken to break a habit

Sitting in silence the other night I watched you weave thirteen rows of crochet and so

I thought it flowing well

Turns out you can tell

When the rows have gone to hell

And I can't

Unwoven

By choice another angle chosen

Another weave

Another story

Another comfort

And as your fingers go in

Loops and loops flow in

Another blanket

Another row

Another edge skirt

Another heartbeat

Then I skip a beat

And remember how little I can see

How many petals can you fold into the epoxy?

Layered and lacquered and so gently crushingly beautiful

How deep a pink can your rose tinted glasses be?

I can't ever remember the answer

Buts it's gotta be die or more dye

Anything else would be too much like numb

Or worse

Doing what I should