She sits on the bench and looks at the book.
Her fingers are red with cold
the wind stings her cheeks
and she can't read the words.
It doesn't matter.
Impervious to weather and reading ability,
she's captivated by the world in the pages.
Her imagination is free from the manipulation
of the author's carefully chosen phrases.
This is not his story, it's hers.
Her story, her world, her universe.