The Basket Weaver
The work is hard. Painstaking.
Every bit of it is detail.
The melding of wood and reed,
the bending and shaping of things made to be straight.
A complicating in the name of usefulness and beauty.
Your fingers grow tired and sore.
At times you bleed, cut by sharp edges.
The work is hard, and mostly,
About this poem
It is about basket weaving, but also about all the people who are working with therapists and counselors to sort through their lives and make them better. It’s hard work, mostly unseen, and that work deserves to be honored.