her secret world
is dark and
hidden
behind the curtain
of her day.
when the shades
are pulled
the lights dimmed.
it's a world you
don't want to know.
she tells no one
about the hours
that she toils at her
craft, her fingers
curled, rocking
back and forth
in the corner chair,
neither good nor evil,
but mysterious
and so like her,
not wanting to seem old,
so strange,
how the needles click,
the yarn
unravels as she makes
another afghan
for someone
for Christmas.
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