The Pencil

I found a pencil on the ground, Twas just a small stub that I found I started just to pass it by, but picked it up, not knowing why Of all the pencils on this earth, I'd never seen one of less worth I thought, I'll throw this thing away, but that small stub just seemed to say You must not cast me to the side until my fine lead you have tried But I was walking in a park, knowing ere long it would be dark

I knew not what I ought to do, Then I began to think of you I came upon a little bench, and I sat down to try to think While I was thinking what I'd say, a piece of paper blew my way, As I sat there upon my seat, it landed right there at my feet. Then for a while I just sat there, a strong breeze blowing in my hair Then something strange that startled me, with no one there that I could see

I heard these words, quite loud and clear, Why do you think I landed here? And why, on such a windy day, did I not just blow on away?

I took that paper and began, with that small pencil in my hand The words I wrote just seemed to flow, for it was dark by now, you know And I wrote things I never dared, to tell you just how much I cared And how I almost worship you, tho I know you don't want me to I told you just how lovely you are, how you're my one bright shining star; How I would give my life for you, tho you would never ask me to

And I was going to write much more, I never wrote so good before As I sat there beneath the trees; the words much lovelier than these But all good things must have an end, if you believe will just depend

What happened next is stranger still. A wind came blowing down the hill To my great shock and deep dismay, I watched the paper blow away As I arose to go my way, since there was no reason to stay Took a few steps, and then I stopped, for something that I had forgot. Went to the bench, looked all around, that pencil just would not be found

I hurried home, turned on the light, and searched my mind far into the night To find the words that I had said, but couldn't find them in my head I think about that pencil still, and I suppose I always will The thing that really bugs me so; the answer, I may never know Those sweet words flowing beauti'fly, was it writing, or was it me?

by hal gantt

Edification of the Pencil

I found that little pencil again, you know, the one I lost in the park Somehow, it was just there in my hand, the day you came back in my life It edified itself to me, and I felt my infinity Without it words were meaningless, for it gave me the rhyme and flow That little stub was you, you know, you wrote those lines thru me, I guess

I wish that you would make a note and tell me someday what you wrote Now that I have that stub again, perhaps I'll write, if I can But I'll wait for another day, for now I only want to say; (I hate to use an old cliche) But you're the wind beneath my wings, you are the song, if my words sing

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by hal gantt