February 8, 2012
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A whim springs forth
the way a pencil
from a lackadaisical hand,
unexpectedly, deliciously
rolling off the fingertips
in a cathartic cascade to the ground below.

A multitude of erasure bits on my desk
are dislodged,
floating softly downwards
to join the pencil below.

The pencil
innocently, coaxingly
on the linoleum floor,
an opportunity waiting to be grasped.

My eyes
this patient pencil,
yet my hands do not stir.

My thoughts
the possibilities,
the minutia,
the consequences.

My hand
torn between
what is and what could be.

I forget the pencil
and with that same hand
grasp the bold pen on my desk.

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