There is something satisfying about
    writing in
        pencil.

Perhaps it is the comforting
        scratch
    made on the paper as the
        point moves past.
Perhaps it is the feel of
        wood
    between your fingers
    the look of the
        graphite
    as it leaves its imprints upon the
        page.
The earthiness of it all.

So unlike pen whose
    Blue
Is not a color found in
    nature.

The pencil
    feels natural
    as if it came out of the
        earth itself
The pencil is familiar
    A cousin
    A kinsman

For, I too am of the earth
    I, too, am most at home
    surrounded by wood.

I, too, scratch
    as I leave my impression
        upon the page.

Perhaps it is because we share
    in an anxiety
    and a joy
    —a paradox of hope—
Knowing that what we do
    can be
        erased.

All of our toil is
    impermanent
    fleeting.
Not so durable as the pen
    A mere breath
        compared to the chiseled rock.
The feeling of a life spent in
        pursuit of vanities

But perhaps it is because
    I know that
        my mistakes
            my errors
            my shortcomings
            my sins
    Can likewise be erased
        by the
            Author

And in this is solace
    In this is peace
        This pencil and I
            Children of earth and wood
    Impermanent
        neither forever lasting
        nor forever marred

Guided by a hand we barely
        perceive,
    Cradled,
        Held

Sharing in a creation beyond
    our knowing
Known deep in the
    mind of its
        Author.