Missive To Moi

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Spinning Spinster Sister, weaving woman of prose and poetry that none such has ever seen…. oh, my what a creature you’ve become in your latter years! Do not weep for the past unknowing, unweaving youth you once were, for then you couldn’t grow, couldn’t prosper in the arid land that was your rooting place. Only now, in this mature, fertile soil can your magicks be felt, only in the here and now can the world experience the mature, heavy fruit which sweetens the soul and tickles the tongue, the very fruit with which your ancient oak is laden. 

 
 
Fret not for lack of cuddling pillow talk companionship, fret not for lack of independence from the mistakes that shackle you, for your beloved might be far yet he is near as the daylight that creeps into your chamber and your shackles are mere bangles which shall chip away like cheap dime store plastic. Mistakes have groomed you, have set your loom for the most inspired tales and verse you have written, and as for distance? Well, that distance has forced you AND your beloved to create such artistry as to communicate more than words, more than mere feelings, but color and light and love which can me sensed even across time and tide. 
 
 
So, celebrate, you Divine Diva! For though there are those who would see your station as less than palatable, you have arrived at this station after a long journey, and though you may stay for a spell, the journey, truly, has just begun.  
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