“The spinner weaves words like spiders’ webs
from the thinnest of threads,
half-formed thoughts, collected phrases
and acute observations,
that she keeps stored in a small back room, in her head.

She knits them all together and turns her wheel,
spitting out full stories,
tales taking shape as she works,
the almost alchemy of something from nothing, at all.

She takes her own experience
and melds it to things seen, and heard, and felt by others,
and merges them all into one flowing thread
of words that shape the edges of a feeling,
the pull of a connection,
the picture on the inside of another’s head.”