25 April 2012
The smell of freshly sharpened woodshavings..
The scritch scratch of lead on paper..
My senses basking in the familiar warmth of writing.
Like that childhood fuzzy blanket..
Like Granma's old fashioned cookie..
What no keys nor pen could ever conquer..
What no future can erase a past..
What I would continue to yearn the feel grasped among worn fingers..
An old friend -
Pencil • Opuss № I