Quiver of Pencils
by Odin Roark


Like a quiver of missiles,
how calm your forbearance
awaiting the launch pad of mind,
determined to explore targets unknown.

How colorful your surfaces,
from red to yellow,
silver to white,
black-tipped payloads
waiting anxious countdown,
that forever pause as minds draw on inspiration,
arcing trajectories of reason
to land upon destinations in need.

These carefully chosen instruments,
born from assembly line,
number 2s of heavier intent,
3s of tentative conviction,
4s of fleeting thoughts.

At times of such personal protection,
dissuading distractions,
sentries of sorts,
forever faithful,
desire only to be used

Such history,
these instruments so poised.
the freshly sharpened so anxious,
the experienced so melancholy,
remembering such humble beginnings.

Now,
from my desk,
my paper,
my gaze from window to horizon,
paper willing,
jar of pencils patiently wait.

How seductive,
how discouraging at times,
this innocent persuasion
asking courage to just be who you are.

If only if it were that easy.