Soft Dust

The rasp of the sharpener,

a dry, hungry sound.

Wood curls falling,

and then the fine, silver-gray dust,

a soft pile on the page.

Graphite.

The mark it makes,

so easily there,

so easily gone.

A smear, a smudge,

a quick swipe of a thumb.

All the thoughts,

the hurried lines,

the rough sketches of what was,

what could be.

All of them

just dust,

waiting for a breath

to scatter.