The way you have a way with words,
I bless every book and every poem
that has ever graced your sight.
I praise the letters you've strung thus far,
if I could, I'd stitch them with my own
to make a blanket of letters that would
cover and protect you in the next winter.
Now I am writing astray,
but from my original pseudonym
I am never too far away.
You are the one writing these poems,
I am just your hands and the veins on them.