The fortunate I,
The send-sighted me,
What might have I done
To deserve this to see?

That inchworm in paining,
Though pretty she was,
Has set to cocooning,
In endless becomes.

Such books, she has heavy,
Her heart so it spins,
That silken word cover,
With lux-journal skeins.

Such passion in weaving,
She'll fuel open minds,
And full will this artist,
Soon her medium find.