Origami-mama

 

Fingers fold a sheet upon itself;

base formed, sides touching, corners turned,

returned, sharp edges smoothed,

mountains, valleys,

light and shade,

manipulated — a paper

peace crane, serene.

In time,

a geometric remnant.

 

Hands unfold; a bit crumpled,

a bit worn,

creased, released,

sometimes torn,

yet freed, to find

original form;

once again, a simple

single sheet.


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Filed under Free Verse, Poetry

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