It is funny the things that appear in my journal; my lilies are there in every radiant hue.
My husband is there, working on the boat,
his head bent low over the engine.
There is my son and I walking in the woods on a summer day,
basking in the coolness all those trees offer.
We listen to the cacophony of frogs, and our Bella dog listens too.
We are swimming on the pages; in the river, we splash and play;
in the pool, I glide and watch the clouds.
In my journal, the ocean calls to me. Long stretches of beach appear and vanish,
hot sand beneath my feet.
The journal pages crease as we ease into the coming days;
flowers pressed in the margins of my life;
all that sun and shade, spellbindingly beautiful.
