Featured Poem


Jane Richards      


Anne could knit one heck of a sweater,

pink and purple and teal zig-zags,

a little loose at the neckline;

I own it now,

don it on the coldest days.

I can almost sense her fingers in the weave,

the warm imprint of her body.


There are so few photos of her,

no grave to visit, no urn of ashes,

nor tree planted in her honor,

no memorial service pamphlet--

she wanted none of that.


Instead, she is knitted into my life,

her gifts appearing with regularity:

the butterfly pin from Mexico,

a stained recipe for jelly tots,

the commercial grade measuring spoons,

her advice to avoid buying

those dowdy print dresses.


Her loss defies convention,

refuses to sit in its seat,

stay in the cupboard,

be silent.


So like her.

Originally appeared in Coneflower Cafe, Spring 2024.