When one opens a notebook.
To a fresh, blank sheet.
When they have a sole outlook
Of what they plan to complete.
Each new line, each new page.
Is a creation, an endeavor.
It can wither, It can age,
But the intent is forever.
A writing, a drawing
Or just a reminder.
Is the maker's new calling.
That is left to the finder.
And though the page may rip,
And though the ink may smudge
And though the book may be lost.
And though
