She weaves words like morning light, soft and warm,
Turning the ordinary into verses that charm.
A sip of tea, a weary sigh
She makes them poetry, I wonder how and why.
Her lines hold whispers of quiet pain,
Of fleeting moments, of loss and gain.
She sees the world in a different hue,
Painting life in words so true.
Not just a poet, she’s time’s own voice,
Finding beauty where we see just noise.
If everyday life is a song unsung,
She’s the melody, soft yet strong.