Ode: Pencil
The way it flows across the page.
Its sharp led point.
Leaving behind a clean note of black font.
Guiding us to make beautiful master pieces.

The way it corrects its mistakes with its soft pink eraser.
Showing us love by leaving behind its pink traces.

Its smooth edges cradle in our hand as it slowly ages.
Shedding down brown shavings.
Leaving traces of its existence.
Its always at work until its yellow outside is too short.

Then it’s praised with its beautiful memorial.
Drifting away into the black sea.
As its soul awaits to enter the almighty of cradlers.
The Teachers Desk.