The Empty Journal Poem by Barry Middleton

an abandoned smokehouse on the home place
whose smoky fires had long grown cold
was a storehouse for broken dreams
forgotten memories
and blond fantasies of times past

we used the place to play our children's games
when old ones rocked the porch and paced the day
like molasses from the mule turned cane mill
down by the pond
we invented mysteries there when none presented

I recall I went there all alone on a romantic day
and found discarded in a tray of family treasure
my favorite book
I opened it and took a look

it was an empty diary
a journal that the lady of the house
intended always to begin and end
but never found the time to write an idle line

there were too many meals to cook
too many clothes to wash
too many times the rains were slight
or just as bad a flood
times when her only plans
were to bolster her husband's
against both their doubts

and yet he died
then she
the book was set aside untouched
my favorite
leaving me to put upon its empty face
what I would
love
death
an embrace