You made them so miniscule,
paper swans an atoms’ width,
you made them with
pulp from a peach tree;
solemnly you separated the cyanide with
the center fold and
flapping wings from the fuzz.
You fussed for days with the deliberate creases,
each intricacy made intimate
from the heart of you and
breathing ever seldomly,
only because you needed to.
Back to breathless at the thought of me,
my fragile china smile,
green Polaris irises beaming broadly across the expanse at you,
my melancholy your conundrum, an enigma,
cautiously cajoling me, aggravating stigma,
making a poultice by reminding me
the winter solstice may bring darkness quickly but
the light grows longer thereafter.
You made these miniscule paper swans to swim in my bloodstream,
to steam my passion back to action,
to lift me up when I’m feeling less-than fortunate,
to flap and sing at your torturous absence,
which it will be,
your dream a green divinity,
cold concrete my reality while you fly with friends abroad.
Still I’ll have these paper swans to find purchase for this footing,
snow-topped mountain peaks for every ache while we’re apart,
swimming through my veins and
combusting in my heart.