I wove by hand.
Each one, I secured from the center,
spiraled into my palm,
stitched to hold,
and kissed before moving on.
The material, I cut in fall,
dried through winter,
hung from the rafters where it rustled
in the breeze each time
it was warm enough to open the windows.
When the birds began to sing for spring,
I took each blade of grass and
tested for its willingness to bend,
chose the best and
burned the rest for ash in the garden.
I made these circles one by one out of
the grasses that grew where I buried your ashes,
stitched them together and
bound the edge
with one long strip of braided blades.
This mat I made of grass blade circles
is roughly the size of my body.
Lying on it feels like lying within you.