Whispers of the Wind

Let your hand float across the page,

Like an eagle skimming the surface of the water,

With silent, deadly power,

Let your mind reach for the stars,

Desiring only to know, to discover,

To create worlds of pain as vividly colored as a rose,

With thorns of memories and heartbreak,

But let it also strive for worlds of great beauty,

Worlds of a young child’s sparkling eyes,

Because a writer never focuses on the horrors of war,

But the lone sock of a small child,

Lying abandoned in the street.

Never the big picture,

But rather the smallest piece of the picture imaginable,

Because the way of the writer is gentle and kind.

Not a hurricane,

But rather,

A whisper of the wind.