This poem is on my mind tonight; I'm not sure why. It offers a subtle comfort though--the thought that all this, the world, is a loving work-in-progress, something about it always being erased and re-worked.
The World Is in Pencil
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—not pen. It’s got
that same silken
dust about it, doesn’t it,
that same sense of
having been roughed
onto paper even
as it was planned.
It had to be a labor
of love. It must’ve
taken its author some
time, some shove.
I’ll bet it felt good
in the hand—the o
of the ocean, and
the and and the and
of the land.
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