My pencil sings, though oft off tune;
Of flesh, of sweat, of work. Too soon
the graphite dulls and edges blur.
Each passing line, I feel less sure.
I write, I draw against the grain,
while still I can, and then again,
an end arrives of poem, of line,
of light, of love of life, my wine.
I’m sated now: enough this time;
but in due course, I’ll raise a rhyme.
I am not given to writing poems in rhyme, or with such a meter, but this one just fell in my lap. So here it is. Perhaps I’ll throw it back. Happy Sunday All.