The Promise of a Journal by James B. Nicola

The pages in the journal on my lap
invite more thought than the ephemera
of pixels. Anything that I inscribe
will last beyond the stroke, the line, the life.
Since Christmas, or two Christmases ago,
or three, it’s lain on my piano, blank,
unused, unloved, in wait for me to close
another book, which, yesterday, I did.

This new one was made in Nepal, perhaps
by hand: its edges are uneven, like
an organism’s, and streaked shades of beige
and bumps call from the wild, like hemp and rope.
Even the bookmark’s ripe enough to smoke.
And yet till now it’s been a testament
to no thought—no thought but all thought, that is,
like all newborns with one life each to live,
full of potential, hope, and seeming order.

I’d thank whoever gave this to me, but
I recall the giver was mysterious.
Still, whether it was Santa Claus himself
or The Great Giver of the Universe
or just my friend Anonymous, I’ll try
to meet the daily challenge of its beauty.