Ode to the Pencil
You’ll never find me Without one. At the ready For those Unexpected Random Inspired Creative moments. The pencil.
A single one Can draw a line 35 miles long. Or write 45,000 words. Mine, however tend To find themselves Tracing the outlines of Dainty honeybee wings or Providing various beasts With fur And teeth And claws. The pencil. The most simple, Beautifully simple Tool. Just ask Einstein Who preferred short ones That fit perfectly In his breast pocket. Or Steinbeck Who began each day With 24 Freshly sharpened.
Henry David Thoreau Before wandering into the woods around Walden Pond Was known for manufacturing The hardest, Blackest pencils around. Ahhh for a pencil manufactured by Mr. Thoreau. The pencil. Humbly began As the perfect tool For marking sheep. And now accompanies me On creative journeys. Assists me With tasks I puzzle through. Allows me to see Beyond a page. My fingers are Blackened With graphite. Wooden shavings Lie Around my feet. And a blank page Comes to life. The pencil. Expressive lines. Thicks And thins Conveying Great emotion. A computer may be A powerful tool With its glowing Screen And Buttons to press and Oh so many colors From which To choose. But at the beginning When it’s time to begin I always begin– I begin With a pencil. Freshly sharpened To a very fine point. It’s simplicity Not distracting Unlike those buttons That glowing screen And those Oh so many colors.