Her name tells of how it was with her.
The truth is she loved to hold
A pen between her fingers.
Her fingers, itching to move
Her pen across the clean, wide page
Filling it with language that sings,
Leaps, and dances with every word.
Filling it with important thoughts –
Ideas so uplifting they sprout wings
And fly toward the gentle Sun
With gifts of love to
Open doors and warm hearts.
She needed readers to
Let her know she had something to say,
And to know that others might listen.
She dreamed of a day when her book
Would be held by tiny and strong fingers,
An eager child with bright eyes and imagination.
And she dreamed of the squeals of joy and
Laughter as he or she read her words.
Then she would know that she could be called
Author.
The truth is she loved to hold
A pen between her fingers.
Her fingers, itching to move
Her pen across the clean, wide page
Filling it with language that sings,
Leaps, and dances with every word.
Filling it with important thoughts –
Ideas so uplifting they sprout wings
And fly toward the gentle Sun
With gifts of love to
Open doors and warm hearts.
She needed readers to
Let her know she had something to say,
And to know that others might listen.
She dreamed of a day when her book
Would be held by tiny and strong fingers,
An eager child with bright eyes and imagination.
And she dreamed of the squeals of joy and
Laughter as he or she read her words.
Then she would know that she could be called
Author.
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