Fragile The Flower?
Her words revealed a tranquil tome,
Last night, right here within our home –
"He did not read, I think," said she,
"So I've no thoughts if good it be."Hey! That's just great, perhaps he knew
That you'd gone past what he could do,
And feared he'd step upon a flower,
Which fragile is at dawning hour.It matters not the reader's view
As we create, as words we choose;
For at the first it's our surprise,
As worlds emerge before our eyes.Each book I write I learn so much:
With inner self I get in touch –
I feel my world, I sense its pain,
Feel ecstasy, and hope again.The folks I know, my books don't read –
For why? My inner self they see
And hear, as I do life with them –
A book's for other women, men.For decades hence some girl or boy
Will through my words hear, "Land ahoy!"
And thrill to walk my fantasy,
And venture forth to hero be.Or even more, perhaps someday
That girl or boy will rise and say,
"I've got a tale which I can give
To other folks who elsewhere live."And so as we throughout the age,
Share stories on the net or page,
We share with others ’round the fire,
Our hopes, and dreams, and felt desire.navigation