For Without a Reader

There was once a writer who had written no words for she had no words within her.
For without a reader to see her sadness there was nothing left to say

There once was a writer who didn't know she was until a listener encouraged her to talk
to open those pages and imagine what things inside her might spill out upon them
to breathe what was inside her very being onto the blank canvas of her dreams
And she did, that writer did.
For without a reader her words might never have been born.

There once was a writer whose dreams were short and her words unsteady on their feet, but there they were. On the page. Before her.
For without a reader those pages would have remained empty.

There once was a reader who began to build a little place to speak, a sentence placed here, a poem hung over there,
to give voice to the challenges that burned and the void inside that curdled
to reach out to those who might be like her; a writer, yet with no words of their own
And so she built. She stripped back and wove together.
For without a reader that building would remain unseen.

There once was a writer who finished her first book. Her dreams now longer. Long enough that her arms now wrapped not only around herself but around others. She is proud. And she is humbled.
For without you, my readers here, and all the many other readers in my life,  there might never have been anything left to say.

~

Thank you. To all my readers. To my first reader. To the man who reads with me.
May you all read if your read, and write if you write, for there is plenty that has been said. And plenty left to say.

Merry Christmas.

{I will be breaking for Christmas from now until the 3rd of January 2011.}