I’m running out of pages. This book’s full,
so yesterday I took some paper scraps
I’d saved and made myself another book.
It isn’t fancy, only five by eight,
and certainly it isn’t perfect, but
the paper’s thick enough that I can paint
with watercolors, draw with pen and ink,
or sketch in pencil. I can even write
if I’ve a mind to write instead of draw.
It’s just a book, a journal, empty, plain,
and nothing special. Just a simple book,
an empty book but one I made myself.
The leather cover’s green but non-descript.
There isn’t any tooling. It is blank
and empty like the pages. Waiting. And
in time I’ll also fill those pages up.
Eventually. Eventually I will.
Eventually I’ll make another book.