Friday Morning Meditation
The sound of grinding brings
a certain satisfaction to me,
even the smell of wood
shavings gathering in a small,
clear plastic bin.
The tip will never stay sharp,
the pink nub of rubber
at the other end will constantly reduce.
There is something about
this wooden thing that
reminds me of my yearning,
errant self, something I cannot
quite catch even as I mourn
the smallest stub among the bunch,
wondering if it will survive
another sharpening.
edited 2014-07-18 11:59 p.m.
Friday Morning Meditation
The sound of grinding brings
a certain satisfaction to me,
even the smell of wood
shavings gathering in a small,
clear plastic bin.
The tip will never stay sharp,
the pink nub at the other end
will constantly rub out.
I count two inches
before its final
sharpening.
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