when she took up basket weaving
i began to worry.
she'd sit for hours
on the porch, not speaking,
but with a strange smile on her face
her hands busy with long
strands of bark.
the push and pull seemed
mindless, as the house fell
in disarray.
she'd go at it from morning
until the sky grew dark.
they were beautiful baskets.
small and large.
she'd fill them with fruits
and cakes, small jars
of jams and jellies
then pass them along as gifts
for holidays, or birthdays.
at some point they took her away.
two men in white coats came,
a woman with a clipboard
for me to sign. from the back
of the van, she smiled,
she even waved.
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