The writer the seamstress and the spider met.
And the writer said to the seamstress:
Why do you stare all day at thread and spend your days spinning silk?
Why do you stare all day at words the seamstress said when the sky is crimson red?
Why we are the mistresses of our own fate- stringing gossamer, ink or loom.
We define our names while others stare at screens
Watching black boxes and dreaming no dreams.
With the fabrics and fragments we frame.
We each weave alike
you me and she.
The Silent Singer 