Before I’m pickled, before the brine, I hang low in gardens on a vine.

I leave a bold trail wherever I go, On paper or boards, I help ideas show. I may guide a path, label a place, or leave behind a lasting trace.

Filled with water, sand, or grain, I serve through sunshine, work, and rain. Though not a barrel, tub, or bowl, carrying things remains my role.

I am small yet I hold great control over spaces both near and far I do not speak yet I grant permission I can welcome you in or keep you out I often travel in pockets or bags and am easily lost causing stress and delay I come in many shapes but serve one simple purpose to open what is closed and secure what is not mine alone is not enough but in the right place I become powerful what am I

What a vending machine with an accent might say when pointing out a writing utensil to a gentleman.