Journal

Blank pages waiting for my ink
to record my doings, 
or inscribe my thoughts
draw a picture or two to express my moods;

a mulching ground for later stories
or country western songs,
a breeding place for new ideas
where plans are made but not forgotten.

I leave scraps of poems and perfect phrases
scattered through the pages
filed away to be found years later
at an estate sale,

purchased by a total stranger
who takes my words to heart
and makes a life I couldn’t start

inspired by dreams I didn’t fulfill
because I was too afraid to take the leap
she took flight from my journal.