Journal

This old journal sits in my attic
It's worn and the pages are a thick off-white paper
The top right corner of the cover is a little rounded from wear
The spirals that hold the pages are crooked
The cover is green
It's a dark forest green, just like the one you like
And the writing is like my feather
Now back to the attic;
There's a medium sized window separated in the middle
It faces the front of the house: east
The shades that cover the window are slanted down
So that the light of the moon shines down
On the little stool
That the journal rests upon
And the sun never shows it any color
Except the most brilliant orange
Like when you write in yours
And you're just about to hit publish
So this book has stored up all of this moon light
And the brilliant orange sunrise light
And it saved it in the pages
And like a dry watercolor painting
That you rest a wet brush on
The color bursts through it
And it comes alive
Every time you open the pages
But it only works
If the pages have time to absorb the light
So my journal won't get much use
But I'll write in it every so often
And I hope with that
I don't disappoint you, but I make you tear up a little
Just like January First all those many years ago
when our windows faced the west
and the foot of my bed faced the north
and yours faced the south
and the rest of our lives were still so far towards the east
we lived a sunrise life
And now we're looking to the lake
we used to paint every day
And now we just search to bring it back to life
But the paint will always be there
And now that we are here
We can paint still
But we don't have to paint in our journals
We'll paint in the air and in the breeze and in the sky and in the trees
we painted from so far before,
But now that we are here,
Don't worry
We can always go back
to these days
In our attic