the mystery that drives and weaves
and captures all she feels and grieves-
inward lies her heart perfecting
both her days and nights, dissecting
with a tiny mirrored hand-
her sphere, it grows -afflicts the strand
which twines and knots and preys alone
and none will notice, deftly sewn
just like auroras, bold and lithe
she wanders – spreads – abates in sight.