Once she was a little, yes, a tiny bit was she
Living out in rural, land as far as the eye could see
She had sisters and a brother, they played they were so free
Sometimes they would stop, to sing a song or two or three

There was nothing quite like it, the birds they sang so loud
Look up to see blue sky, clear blue without a cloud
Even as a little, her heart could make her proud
Proud of heartfelt ideas, she kept within a shroud

As time passed and she grew, the shroud became a book
She wrote of things, delightful things, never a second look
The things she wrote from her heart, a heart so like a cook
Ingredients blend creating a wish, fostering an attentive hook

The sun goes down, she begins to fade, she smiles at the plot
Did she really write it or was it just a thought?
Has the time that passes all, a dream of something naught?
Or is it brilliant existence, that which all have sought

Whatever the show that plays it out, she chooses to participate
Not a game for light of heart, neither for those who hate
For as she seeks the light so clear, she knows she takes the bait
She makes her way, book in hand, to open the pearly gate