Trying and failing. Fallen birch bark hasn't made me soft pinks yet. But hovering underneath trees picking up curled pieces of bark has named me the new weirdo at the park.
Some dyes are becoming my old faithfuls. And still they surprise me.
Twisting and folding and dipping and dyeing and opening and discovering.
Collecting enough to call a quilt or two.
The sun warm on my back, the season's first flowers cast shadows in my windows,
and my hands are busy in all of this spring.
