One’s Instrument of Creation

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,
Once 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
Desiring only to be used.

Such history,
These instruments so poised,
The freshly sharpened so anxious,
The older so melancholy,
Remembering such humble beginnings.

Now,
From my desk.
My paper,
My gaze from window to horizon,
Paper willing,
instrument of pencil patiently waits.

How seductive
This innocent persuasion.

Yes…

We are all creative.