#2

 

It’s only a pencil

School-bus yellow and

School-year fresh

How many memories

Are bound to my soul

Through a similar slender baton

From my past?

 

Letters traced on large-lined pages

With broken bars to mark the level

 Of an a or a c or an r

(which touches those hyphens once,

then twice on the arc)

Childish notes passed

Shy professions of infatuation

And later, pages upon pages of

Self exploration

Angry rants

Awe-struck revelations

 

I know everything about that pencil

by familiarity with its ancestors

The weight and balance in my hand

the touch of either end –

resilient on one, keen at the other -

And exactly how it feels

Between my curious teeth;

The crunch of painted wood

And the irreversible bend

of the thin metal band

 

No matter how many devices I own

Nor how quickly my fingers fly

Over a keyboard

Or my thumbs press that tiny screen

There is nothing that can replace

A simple stick

For expressing thoughts

And hopes and aches

The words feel more real

For being scraped onto a page

Emotions deeper

Love more authentic

Wondrous wand !