The poem makes a simple claim: reading and writing are not equal partners. Someone can read plenty of books without ever writing one, but a person who writes, the speaker says, is always reading. The twist is that "reading" here stops meaning books. The writer reads the sky, the flowers, her surroundings, even the seconds slipping by. Then she reads people, and finally the last line, set alone, goes deeper: she reads soul.
The speaker seems to admire this kind of writer. There's no anger or sadness, just quiet respect for someone who pays close attention. The list builds gently, moving from big, visible things like the sky to small, invisible ones like passing time, and then to people's inner lives. That steady climb makes the ending feel weighty.
The mood is calm and thoughtful. The plain wording and slightly imperfect grammar give it a sincere, personal tone, as if the speaker is simply sharing something she has noticed about how writers see.