Paper Wings

Paper airplanes

Are childhood dreams

Handmade,

Spun and bent and folded

All at home.

Crisp and new-white blankness

Creased into points and edges

For flying.

 

The yard is a launch base

The pond is an ocean.

The road is a canyon

For crashing.

But no one minds that.

 

No one minds the crooked wings

The lopsided dips and rolls

Nose-diving midair.

All anyone sees

Are determined paper birds,

Sunlight spinning off their wings.

 

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