Pencil to Paper

Tucked inside the remains
of a hand-hewn farmhouse
Cloaked in pines
Dusted winter white

After the frenzy
Of obligations
Has sifted and settled
Drawn down
By the sinking western glow

I put pencil to paper
Like a toddler
Peering at her dinner spoon
Hoping to see a bit of herself
Even if upside down

In the dim yellow light
Of a shop-class lamp
Amidst perpetual piles
Of next week's projects
I sort the thoughts
That will not flow
In conversation

Gratefulness, wit
Charity, humor
These drip into speech
As hydrogen
And oxygen
Down from ice needles
Laced on pines
Under January sun

So lightly these
Flit from lips
They rarely plead
to find expression
in the delicate selection
of pencil to paper

Tucked inside
The upstairs room
When my children
And my joys
Are sleeping
I quietly, gently
Unwrap my soul
Lift out the heartache
And wait for words
To wrap it more beautifully
In something outside of me
And lighten my load
Before sleep

Groping for language
To set these sentiments
In crafted silver
Saphire-lined
To fit their worth

Stitching emotions
Phrase on phrase
Embroidering sorrow
And grief
With hope

As brush to canvas
As fingers to strings
Or keys
I weave words
Not for despair
But for humanity

When at last I perceive
Myself in braided verse
Content
I rest my hand
My heart
Aching tamed
Leashed by voice
Of pencil to paper

When my light goes out
And my head lies down
Even the snowflakes
On the ancient pines
Sigh