She was thirteen when her mother gave it to her
it was lovely, and she never so proud
to even just hold it, let alone own it
filled her head up with light
The things I will write!
and sent her to live in the clouds.

It was bound in soft leather, creamy light tan
"Feel how soft it is? Your grandfather made it
he made more than clocks
see, there's a key to this lock
and I've a book to match, though mine's faded."

The girl at once desired to write in it
to pour her words all over a page
But it'll be ruined, spoiled and wrecked
I'll mar the clean paper
in eagerness or in anger
I'll destroy it in some dimwitted rage.

Her mother soothed her, and assured her
"It couldn't be spoiled by you
Yes, I filled mine with foolishness
With petty, now past, regrets
And with hope, with my loves, and my truth.  

"It's precious, hand tooled, of soft leather
The last thing your grandfather made
But without you, my girl, it is useless
It's a silly old thing
scrap paper and string
A dead wasted book, left betrayed."

Then her mother pressed it into her hands
You can't ruin it, whatever you do
It was made it for my child
When Grandfather saw your smile
For it's lovely, sweet girl, as are you.