Paper airplanes
Are childhood dreams
Handmade,
Spun and bent and folded
All at home.
Crisp and new-white blankness
Creased into points and edges
For flying.
The yard is a launch base
The pond is an ocean.
The road is a canyon
For crashing.
But no one minds that.
No one minds the crooked wings
The lopsided dips and rolls
Nose-diving midair.
All anyone sees
Are determined paper birds,
Sunlight spinning off their wings.
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