This word unfolds, gathers up wind
To speed the crane’s flights
North of my sun to you.
I am shaping this poem
Out of paper, folding
Distances between our seasons.
This poem is a crane.
When its wings unfold,
The paper will be pure and empty.
By Marjorie Evasco
| 8th Mar 2012✧18:1224 notes
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| 22nd Jan 2012✧12:02
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