Journaling

In the same notebook
that I dump
the darkest toxins
of my soul,
I also create my dreams-
white lilies unfolding,
tender yellow stamen,
that even too strong a breeze,
too hot a sun
could wilt.

All these thoughts
seem to lie together,
back to back,
if not peacefully,
then at least
without one destroying the other
because when my pen
drops off in sleep
and then morning comes,
the notebook still lies,
undisturbed,
on the floor beside my bed,
as if it has slept
as contentedly
as I.

By Maria Brady-Smith
Photo by Mike Smith