These are the paper Years
These are the origami cranes.
By the hasty, careless hands of time I am folded and creased into a shape that I pray, will have wings
These are the newspaper airplanes. When theory becomes practice, when childhood experiments become vicious reality.
These are the watercolor paintings. Brush strokes swirling and tapping and mixing paint upon my blank slate into colors I don’t yet have a name for. Is this periwinkle? Is the image turning muddy?
These are the poems. My smooth, naked surface being tainted with smudges and eraser shavings and crossed out words that were almost the right ones.
These are the paper years.
But what I desire, requires three dimensions.