He reads her poetry at dawn
Before she wakes and takes her book.
She writes in cursive alphabet
The lines that keep him on the hook.

She never reads her lines aloud –
Nor lets him read her “loopy hand” –
For once her pencil’s run through it,
There’s nothing left to understand.

Some days, it’s just a couple lines,
Some days, a song is fully formed.
Some days, a moon of gratitude,
Some days, a cloud in thunderstorm.

He’s proud of her, afraid of her –
So much she’s learned at age of twelve.
He’d never found the time for her,
And now she doesn’t want his help.