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.

 

Showers

Showers

Awake in the sky’s spring washing

The streets ripple laughter, and

Raindrops collect in puddle chuckles,

Birds joining chorus.

The wet world basks

Waiting wonder fresh

As weary winter limbs stretch

Facing up

Towards the splash.