as if real life deadlines go on hold.
I've been stitching 9-patches, making new cloth from tiny squares.
in the dark time of December
I retreat into the grid.
The moving water makes me think that I always am asking why?
Why do I ask why?
I lose myself in this grid
it's dark by 4:30
It's the shortest day.
But the cloth gets larger.
The stitches make it denser, but it doesn't get bigger