Every Bit as Rare.

It is an old journal, not of words
but of things and costs, a record book
of the tradeoffs of life,
of the exchanges, this for that,
not always, in fact rarely in coin
though a journal of what is valued
and how much, what is worth having
and why. And for a time, you wonder
what your own journal would be like
if you kept it like this, like your forefathers,
how much of your story it might tell, but
also what would be lost, the moods,
the struggles, the loves,
The things that cannot be measured.

No, you will keep to your own rambling
words and pages. The spilling out and discovery
of emotions more than things. The secrets.
The madness and passions and tiny details
that twenty years from now you will wonder
why you bothered, but at the time meant something.
Anyone who might read your words
twenty years hence. will think less and more of you
and wonder at how much they never knew,
not at all like the journal here in the museum,
but every bit as rare.

About this poem

I spent a lot of time writing in my journal this morning. And came out with this poem.

Tom