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I found an old journal of mine.  It's pretty cool because the front of each page is a journal assignment from my freshman English class in high school, but the back of each page is something more recent, specifically from my last year in Houston and my first year or two in Florida.  Regarding the journal assignments, they get a single grade for their reflection journals for the whole 1st quarter...I may do that for my students, rather than doing them continuously, as I have been doing.

It inspired me to try and revive my LiveJournal account.  For those of you who read this a million years ago when I was currently writing them, I used Blogspot for journal entries and LiveJournal for poetry and story snippets.  I wanted to copy a poem onto LiveJournal, but despite resetting my password, it is not blocking my ip address for illegal login... yeah...

So: a poem from 2006 or 2007 entitled Fog, now finished.

In the gentle hours before dawn
peeks over the treeline with rosy cheeks,
before she waves tangerine fingers,
beckoning to her brother's glowing face,
which soon will crest in radiance,
In the still-shadowed hours after night
turns up cerulean sheets to cover
her head, and the moon with sandy eyes
looks toward her own secret bower,
On the days when zephyr plays
alone, gusting mischievously but only
half-heartedly, then turns to himself
and keeps his own tired counsel,
Then it is that soft waters in slow
river channels, or lying with eyes shut,
pretending to sleep in pastures and ponds,
cautiously raise hoary heads and creep
upward and outward from earthen cradles.
The sky sleeps lightly, and it tosses not from
dreams, neither good nor ill, while gentle footsteps
make their way across slate and olive lawns,
dew-soaked in the wake of blanketing clouds
playing softly in the stillness, all creatures treading
lightly in limited light, their sight consumed by
morning mist, their own beds so lately
filled and occupied, still inviting, warm
compared to the soft chill of pre-dawn
air.  Day comes soon, but not yet, giving
the fog its frolick and freedom, stretching
glistening arms across fields and roads,
through trees, lying on benches and flowerbeds,
the sky smiling softly, eyes closed, pretending
to still sleep and dream of a world at peace,
letting that illusion last as long as the fog
and the day and the sun will let it.