The other journal

I have two journals; both of which are pitifully neglected. They both reside in the nightstand beside the bed. This morning I was reminded that they exist when my daughter pulled them out and began leafing through their pages. There's the journal with a picture of a celestial woman (you may prefer angel, but I don't) surrounded by cool, purple hues- she is reserved for collecting memories of my children, mostly good but some bad. I might write something in there like "Friday August 9 2008 8:40 a.m. The girl hushes her baby dolls. She hugs them close to her chest and says 'shhh, shhh' The boy is delving into pretend play like never before. His latest interest is pretending to be a super hero. I tell him his super power is the power to read (so true. He's been reading since 3 1/2)" Then there is the journal that is covered with a picture of an obese cat in a claw footed tub (who thinks of this stuff?) This one is reserved for moments I'm feeling particularly thoughtful. Admittingly this must not happen often because for the most part, the journal is empty. Or maybe when I am feeling "deep" I don't think to write it down or am simply too lazy to write it down. But luckily, there are a few entries. I'm writing you now because I want to share a poem I wrote last September. My girl was still an infant and benefited from the night air to help her relax. As you read, imagine circling around a small, landscaped tree with a child bundled in your arms.

The moon fills me with clear thought.
Trees lay shadows with outstretched arms on the ground.
My feet are aware and alive with sensation; wet. cold. earth.
The baby is at ease in the night air.
My body is hers, wrapped together, bound by fabric and heartbeat.
The stars have shifted. I'm reminded that I'm not stationary.
The cats are watching.
I am content, I am connected.
The baby is at rest.

Not the best writing, but I like how I'm instantly taken back to that night. Constant pacing, the still leaves of the tree, the cars rumbling in the distance, the light through the front door of the house, the feeling that the universe is never ending and I am but a small fleck of stardust... It is important to write things down and I regrettably don't do this enough.