From Occupation to Meditation

You ask what Fiorella does--
She writes--on paper, cloth, paper towels, napkins, canvas, wood, wallboard, cardboard, Kleenexes, toilet paper, sidewalks, walls, and whatever else is available.  Her implements are pens, pencils, crayons, oils, acrylics, water colors, chalk, charcoal, lipsticks, oils, acrylics, and her own fingertips. And what does she produce? Poems, short stories, books, booklets, articles, newsletters, essays, charts, songs, plays, letters, lists,  instructional pamphlets, sketches, illustrations, paintings, advertisements, blogs, posts, plays, signs, and whatever else takes her fancy.
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Long ago, when Fio worked full-time in the Sears credit department and attended college part-time (having to miss out on two of her five classes twice a week), there were three of us who used to stick together--Virginia Tschatschula, Anne Chapman, and yours truly.  Anne died early from cancer and Virginia departed this mortal coil four years ago, which leaves one to go--but not without a fight.
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 I must tidy up my garden
And plant new flower beds
I must water all the roses
And trim the privet hedge

I must cover up the marks of
Intruders in the night
I must rake the footprints smooth in
My garden of delight

I must bury all my old dreams
And hide them from my view
When I clear the harm of trespass
Then I can plant anew

(Obviously, this poem has nothing whatever to do with gardening)