Day 59:
Busy day with a few bright moments to breathe in the flowers and drink a cup of tea with beloveds. Three granny squares and a tiny poem.
Beauty and Rage
by Beth Weaver-Kreider
Somewhere on the page of my day,
somewhere on the brightly light stage
is the balancing point
between beauty
and rage
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Day 58:
Not much time for poems and projects today. One sweet granny square and a short poem. Here are some of the little orange bowls in use, and nested together like a little box. And the tiny blooms on a witch hazel tree.
Spheres
by Beth Weaver-Kreider
The glistening eye of the golden koi misses nothing:
the thousands of tadpoles huddling in the shallows,
the legs of the patient heron watching for young trout,
the shadow of a raven winging above the pond.
The underwater realm is her contemplation.
The golden sphere of the black snake’s eye reveals
the fire of life force in the vole’s underground den,
the sparkle of light on the shining scales of the koi,
the gleaming wings of a beetle in the leaf litter.
She regards her territory with appraising eye.
The round eye of the doe holds the whole meadow:
every stalk quaking with unseen breezes,
every snake nosing through the grasses,
every field sparrow visiting her hidden nest.
Nothing escapes her silent observation.
The black eye of the raven absorbs the far view
of fields and treetops, how the river winds
through the valley and down to the bay,
the sudden leap of a deer in the meadow below.
Nothing escapes her sovereign gaze.
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Day 57:
Lots of little project bits today: Some granny squares, hearts, and flowers. Yesterday, I spent a very enjoyable morning with friends, playing with paper, making a little scrappy book. I’ve been shaping and drying mandarin skins into tiny bowls—I want to sand the edge of this one. The dragonfly afghan is not mine. A friend of a friend bought it on Etsy, and the ends are unraveling in several places! I’m going to try to stabilize it and weave the ends in firmly—a good reminder that the finishing details are as important as the main work of the craft itself.
Also, a few photos of one of my favorite cherry trees, and the little guys who put the cat in catnap.
Carry the garbage outside, but, damn! The moon!
—found on a strip of paper cut from a magazine
a golden shovel
by Beth Weaver-Kreider
How much weight in your heart can you carry?
Is it like the ratio of the swallow to the coconut, the
ocean to its swirling patch of garbage?
The numbers will always remain outside
my comprehension. What does 62 million mean, but
62 million too many? We sing sin, and we damn
the wrong heretics without seeing how many foxes are in the
henhouse, pretending to be roosters in the shadow of the moon.
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Day 56:
I needed to switch it up today, so I worked on a prayer shawl UFO, and sorted my black-lined granny squares. I thought I probably had enough for a sweater, but I think I have only about half of what I will need. I want to add a couple evil eye patches, and I tried turning one of my eyes into a similarly sized square. It’s a little big and a little awkward. I think I’ll need to look up some patterns.
Bear in the Woods
by Beth Weaver-Kreider, 2026
You know that bear in the woods
we choose over meeting strange men?
She is our sister, that bear.
That wolf.
That snake.
That lion.
Those fangs and claws
that venom, those coils
and red raw rage to rend and tear.
That massive spider in the cave.
That flock of ravens circling above you
They are our sisters, all.
And they are coming for you.
You who rape.
You who watch.
And you who keep the silence
of the bro-codes. You.
You want to know how it feels
to feel unsafe in the woods
or anywhere?
Prepare yourself
to find out.
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Day 55:
About five rows tonight. And a card from the Forest Fae deck by Nadia Turner: The Old One. The ancestors call. Seek their wisdom.
Today is National Haiku Day. Here’s a photo of the one I wrote last year.
Knit a Spell
by Beth Weaver-Kreider
she knits and crochets
purposeful tangles in string
to trap evil men
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Day 54:
About three more rows tonight, and two reluctant sweater models. The blossoms are pawpaws, fully open now from the little globe I photographed earlier in the week.
Rage
by Beth Weaver-Kreider
Call that volcano Women’s Anger
and that one Awakening.
Feel the tectonic shift of plates
beneath your feet
the earthquake of women rising
lifting mountains
opening rifts with their rage
shaking the foundations
of the houses you built
to cage us
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Day 53:
Just a few rows tonight. I told myself I might only work for 5 or 10 minutes some days, and so far I have always put at least half an hour into a project every day. Even three rows is close to 30 minutes of time.
Toad
by Beth Weaver-Kreider
the woman who is becoming
has learned to song of the toad
how the restless lights
of lawns and gardens
draw fluttering moths
how ancient the pull of desire
in the waiting darkness
how cool the morning grass
how the jewel of light rests
between the eyes
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Day 52:
A couple rows on the white panel, and dogwood in the rain. These days I am cataloguing some of the things that bring me real hope, like the four good souls of Artemis II and their marvelous team, the joy of the Singing Resistance folks, the absolute dogged courage and persistence of Mrs. Frazzled and her friends who are advocating for women abused by men on The Hill. So many threads being woven for new social realities to grow.
The Slingshot Effect
by Beth Weaver-Kreider
What power slings you around the Moon?
What hope takes hold like gravity?
What force takes your hand and leads you home?
So much can go wrong, so many possibilities to be pulled off course,
so many people throwing their weight toward the shiniest object,
so few willing to enter the darkness on the other side.
But there in the dark you can see the glowing craters
that remind you of the shining spirits of your loved ones,
you can reach out and feel the arms of your beloveds surrounding you.
Can you feel what draws you through the silence
to begin the journey home: the hope, the kindness,
the tenderness of a new world rising?
A crowd of women satisfied in their precise calculations
watches you reenter, joyfully and reverently,
green and safe and changed forever.
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Day 51:
My neighbor’s tulips, and a few more rows on the white panel. I am loving how this bamboo yarn crochets up, how the rows of double crochet stitches in this pattern create little flowers in the mesh. And the finished Into The Woods Quilt! The Janus School Gala is this Saturday. Click the LINK for tickets, to make a donation, or to find out how to bid for auction items online!
Today’s poem is a haibun, a form developed in the 17th century by history’s most renowned haiku poet, Matsuo Bashō. It begins with a short piece of prose, and ends with a haiku commentary on the prose.
Merit
a haibun
by Beth Weaver-Kreider
Mr. Hegseth claims his fighting force will be solely based on merit (by which he means he will not accept women), a word which can only be described as ironic, coming from a drunk chosen from the daytime TV couch, who had mismanaged every business he attempted to lead. Meritorious comes from the Latin verb mereō, which means “to earn, or to deserve.” His role might better be described as meretricious, which means empty and gaudy and lacking in true value. Meretrix, from the Latin, is a feminine noun rooted also in mereō, referring to women who earned their living from prostitution. Like Hegseth, the language devalues the inherent merit of women.
the worth of women
is not determined by the
opinions of men
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Day 50! Halfway there!
I finished the grey panel today and began on the white. I think I can see my way to finish this one. I had my doubts for a while. Went up to see my friend Sam Lewis today. Saw lots of buds and blooms, a flock of deer (I love their tails!) and a grumpy red-tailed hawk (she was making a sort of growling sound). At least three new kite remnants in the trees and wires.
Carrying Water for the Patriarchy
by Beth Weaver-Kreider
See how she trades away her own desire for desirability,
thinks proximity to power will bring her power,
thinks that will bring her safety,
puts on a mask to immobilize her face,
performs her femininity
with vacuous eyes and fatuous lies,
a puppet for the lords of greed.
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Mockingbird Chronicles 