“Most definitely a writer”
They said
Of her

She believed them;
She did, after all, love writing
Writing anything:
Poetry, fiction, memoire

She said “I’ll be a writer someday”
Maybe for children, maybe for news
Could be anything I choose
As long as I can write

Because writing is breathing, you see
For her at least
It’s the thing she does best
The thing she loves most.
The expression of her soul

Every tree in the wood
Every creature she sees
Everything in the world has a song to sing
A song to be written
And shared as well
Shared, that later they’ll
Tell it
Again