Erased

I write my poems in pencil, An eraser close at hand, An older version of “Delete” To follow my command. With one quick rub, or maybe two, The words just disappear; A ghostly hint remains beneath, A first draft souvenir. I like those subtle tracings Which remind me, looking back, How rare it is to nail a thought, Above all, at first crack. It’s much the same in life, for though Apologies are made, The hurt that caused their utterance Is just a lighter shade. For if you look quite carefully, You’ll get a little taste Of feelings that were first to flow, Not totally erased.