The Missing Journal

In her youth, she found a journal and made it a play. What is it today?

Buried under earth and trees,
rotted--half--and munched by bees,
lay a journal, decades old,
and the words were cold.

She once hedged pages about her day
with quirks constrained in an old-fashioned way,
quoting a Genesis that didn't exist-
the world was bound to be good was the gist.

But she read in a way that reshaped the past
transformed that woman's words to have them live for her and last.
She then wrote her own journal, like the start of a play,
to begin her own world's first day.

Sunrise repeated, sun set again,
another day, year, decade, generation.
That reader woman grew old herself
and the start of her play-journal was on the shelf.

She picked up her play-journal but froze in shame.
She couldn't remember her own play's name;
she couldn't feel her words as an uplifting thing;
in a time when, good or bad, many choruses sing.

She put down the journal and walked outside;
since life's last try is no time to hide.
What, was the bird choir singing for her now?
"Well," she sang to herself, and "Wow."