The Open Wound

The beauty of rainfall to ease the open wound, to touch back the pain, to where it can be lost and home again.

The beauty of light as it cracks the cloud, firm and bold despite the harsh and loud.

What could be fear is ash and dust; what could be lost is moth and rust.

To fold back page upon page, to remember age upon age.

I could gaze but why the pain—the beauty of this moment, of this rain.


She did not count, so much as, uncount. Spinning back & forth, the jewels of each small petal, pausing, just there, where time had crept in for the kill. Each small second sharpening the blade, balancing back in its haunches, awaiting some moment that kept refusing to come forward. She could glance, neither up, nor down. Not even a moment could she take her eyes from that soft pink whir. Fingers trembling, quiet like a lip, or a chin, or a blade of grass, or a breath, just hovering on the edge of hope. It was not counting, but uncounting hoping to not count even one more.

Sunset Highway Sweater

So, you can tell from the pilling this is getting lots of wear already, so it may be time to cast on a new summer sweater. But I love it.

I improvised 3/4 length sleeves, adding a strip of grey/green/grey to the sleeve ribbing. These small alterations to the pattern as it was written is a first for me. I’ve never altered a pattern, other than length, before.

I definitely will be more careful about the kind of yarn I use next time. This is pilling far too quickly. Next time I’ll pick a sturdier fingering weight yarn. It is so soft but there is a price for that.