The machine’s turning,
and out pops a load of words,
and the chapter’s packed.
Words drop temptingly,
from the fictional book vine,
entwining readers.
The book vine drops seeds,
Into the fertile ground below,
where writers spring up.
Picking up the leaves,
that’s fallen from the book vine,
writing out poems.
Strings of wordy pearls,
lovingly formed by writers,
adorning my shelves.
