The Crane

August 26, 2012
Once a week you fold yourself
into a paper crane.

When it is complete
It leaps from unsteady hands
And settle in my soft, white dress.
I hold that crane until morning.

Warm, afternoons
I run and it flies beside me.
Cold days spent at fireside.
We smile, we laugh, we love
And for a while

it seems he will never end.

Then the crane flies away
For he belongs to a colorless world.
My crane turns back into the boy
And waits for Friday to come.
Perhaps if we survive this a thousand times
we’ll never again.

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