I will not let the world lack my dreams.
My dreams are made of paper like the sky.
They come to me each morning in the sly
excursions of the dawn’s most fervent beams.
Here, along the outside, the world seems
a solid, fragile thing, opaque and dry,
but make the proper folds and it will fly
like water through the soul’s impossible streams.
I know the fickle world’s heart is fair,
and I will pay it with the perfect coin
to fold along my life’s most cherished crease.
There is a threshold in the fertile air
where paper and reality conjoin
and cranes and smiles are the same as peace.