Day 85 – Wedding

How silly to think that
getting to the paper first
has anything to do with
how long you will keep it

and

how silly to think that
a paper
has anything to do with
love.

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Day 51 – Gunslingers

there were some days
when you tapped a vein
and i knew
you had me beat
without a doubt

there’d be nothing to fight about
if that wasn’t the case

there are some days
when i still open a book
and find you
in folded papers
and i know

i’ve got one hell of a rival
still out there

Year 2: Day 124 – A Woman Of Many And Few Words

She can write all day about
fairy
tales
and
poetry
and
nonsense

but

when it comes to anything important
she
doesn’t
want
to
talk
about
it.

When I ask her how her day’s been
she
hands
me
a
paper
she’s
already
written
about
it.

When I ask her what she thinks about a subject
she
says
“Please
refer
to
the
poem
I
wrote
four
days
ago.”

When I ask her if she loves me
she says she does
but
she
hasn’t
written
anything
about
it.

We have started to give each other notes
when we pass in the hallway
and I think that has helped.
I have started to see other girls on the side
and I also think that has helped.

Day 331 – Paper And Glue

I think it is quite the loveliest thing
to find a person who finds their heart
in books.

I have found no other way to judge a man.

Such a predilection is caught by the keenest ears,
instantaneously recognized
as two travelers drawn to the well.

Not in paper and glue are they bound
but in rhythm, the patterns they trace
with their feet in the sand,

the intersecting dance of discourse,
the enthusiastic, leaping ideas
of well-fed souls.

I know of no greater gift
than a friend who reads,
and no better passing of time than to sit,
together, unveiled, with a book.

Day 153 – Twenty Paper Roses

All of your hearts will be broken, I know-
that’s just the way our world spins around.
As I stand at the pulpit
to model folds and cuts
I’m masking my frustration, too.

They want them to be perfect, these flowers-
twenty paper roses in progress-
I can’t make them trust enough
in a mother’s blind love
can’t tell them their tears are too much

for me at the helm of this project,
witnessing the signs of their futures.
These tears for crinkled paper,
rivers when they’ve grown
and weathered harder storms than arts ‘n crafts,

are kicking up the helplessness in me.
I cannot stop the dark days which will come,
turn their holidays to nuisance,
pulverize the fun of love,
and I cannot help them fold a perfect rose.

But for them I welcome arthritis tonight,
my best effort to model more than art-
from my paper-cut fingers
to my class of young sprouts:
twenty fragile, perfect paper roses.