Dust of Lead

The small hand, clenched,

on the yellow wood,

then the crank turns,

a gritty whir, wrenched

from the quiet good.

He pushed it in.

Cedar shavings fall,

dark curls like dried-up snails,

a small, sharp scent for all

who recall. The classroom fails

to hold the sound,

the scent of graphite,

a memory unbound.

My own dull point, then light.