The Pencil Lifts

A pencil is a little thing
for drawing such a distant place:
a room where someone knows enough
to ease another person's pain.

Between the wish and that room
lie books, lessons, open doors,
and days whose weight
no song can carry for someone else.

Still, a song can turn toward them.
It can leave the shouting street
and hold a smaller sound
near the center.

The pencil makes a line,
then lifts.

There is space for a choice to change.

We have been setting down directions
so tomorrow need not guess
which turn mattered,
which sound was meant to stay.
Let those marks be clear enough to follow,
light enough to cross out
when a better way appears.

A page can keep a path.
A voice must find its footing
each time it walks across.

Some words may have wandered
between the writing and the sound.
That distance still needs checking.
Care begins with noticing
what has not yet arrived.

Beyond the page,
the wish remains larger
than the song made around it.

Let learning have its open door.
Let the music keep room
for the person
whose future
is still theirs to draw.