Move Over Emily Dickinson

A few weeks ago, Ava decided she would write a poem. 15 minutes later, she came back with this:

Flowers

In all sorts of shapes,
with their beautiful capes,
and all the colors there are,
the sage and the rose
and all that grows
the flowers
the colors
the shapes

Nice, no?

On Sunday I was helping her type up a Tall Tale she'd written at school for part of her homework. I'd asked her to read it to me, while I typed. Around the second conflict, she paused. I looked at her.
"What's next?"
Her face turned red and tears started rolling down her cheeks.
"What's wrong honey?" We'd been having so much fun up until this point.
"Sometimes, when I have to show someone something I wrote it makes me feel worried that they won't like it." she managed to sob.

"Oh, honey!" I wiped her cheeks with my palms. Pulled her to me. "You're a writer!" I said.