When the sun arose that morning
And upon the curtains gleamed
Something appeared without warning
The moment that the child dreamed
All who knew her stood there frozen
As the little girl sat mute
Thinking of the pathway chosen
For which she was resolute.

She was eight years old that winter
Just a student by design
Yet her dream, nothing could splinter
For it was so well defined
In her lap, a pad of paper
In her hand, a ballpoint pen
As she wrote of thieves and capers
In stories, time and again.

Many thought the child was lonely
And still more thought she was bored
But the dreamer in her only
Saw her work as a reward
As she dreamed upon the pages
Volumes of her imagery
Withstanding the coming ages
Through her works of poetry.

O’er a decade, she continued
And filled binders to the brim
Then, one day came but a venue
To disprove her dream a whim
The little girl became a writer
As the morning sunlight beamed
And the world, in turn, seemed brighter
All because the child dreamed.

© 2005 – Jill Eisnaugle’s Poetry Collection