There are times when life folds in upon itself,
When you know there is a shape to things.
The flat chronology of time seems to bend just so,
And one year reaches across ten or twenty to touch
Another, and suddenly a new form
Begins to emerge.
Tonight a name from the top of the page
Touched here, the place I'm in, and I can feel
The folds adjust again. What will I be, I wonder,
When the paper redesigns? When I take a final
Shape? A winged thing I hope. Humming bird,
Butterfly or crane.