what mirror mine
as daylight breaks
with pencils
once I wrote the sky
forgiving of a moment
I was lost
I was freed –
of ink I never thought
to care
assurance never mine
a stronger hand
than e’er
I thought to lead

pages
lined with story
let them change
as I have changed –
retelling of the past
another me
somewhere
this remembrance
though not for fate
to let
papers split the light
as falling
leaves

. . .

I am forever grateful that my life be told with pencil rather than pen, with moments still undecided by the stars.