a mason jar
filled with colored pencils
sits on the sill
bathed in morning sunlight.
most are nubs,
chewed and worn smooth
from use.
her sketchbook
eludes my searching
so i decide on something
useful to do,
like sharpening each pencil
to a precise point
in preparation
for her next offering
plucked from thin air
and rubbed
into life
on sixty-pound paper.
