Coming to the end of another journal

I'm coming to the end of another journal

and the pages feel like leaves tossed by the wind

filled with the hopes of spring

the longings of summer

the despair of autumn, 

the silence of winter.

Each page reveals the passage of time, 

days gone that will never return, 

memories of a life lived, 

dreams of all those I love 

who are gone forever.

I can hear the silence of days when 

words refused to come 

and can feel that sense of dread

that always comes when I reach

the last page and it feels 

like I'm standing on

the edge of a cliff.

And I know what's next:

I must take a leap if I want to keep writing.

It's time to start a new journal. 

And, suddenly, there's a blank page

in front of me that gives hope.

The snow will melt,

the leaves will bud again, 

spring will return, 

and with it the longing for summer 

and for life in all its mystery and glory.

 

And so I'll begin once more 

and try to fill each page 

with words of love, 

grateful for the gift of words, 

for the gift of a voice, 

for all the memories

each page contains

when I come to the end

of another journal.