Pencil Shavings

My pen gave up its final word,

a quiet click, barely heard.

So I reached out, a gentle hand,

for wood and graphite, felt the sand

of time, perhaps. The sharpener's mouth,

a small, insistent, hungry south.

The scrape, deliberate, slow and deep,

a cedar smell, secrets to keep.

The lead, now pointed, firm and true,

a small defiance, fresh and new.

The shavings curled, a fragrant pile,

a tangible, stubborn, lovely wile

against the blue, unfeeling glow.

This quiet act, I know, I know.