One sentence, they wrote, and a hundred fingers set to keys and responded.

sewing soft stitches in unnerved unsteady lines 
still new at old practices, still young as the thread winds 
around a needle’s head, through the almost-fabric like 
skin. 

Familiar is this earthly language, these archives full to the brim. 
It must be how the world got magic, these rhymes of life and limb.