Let’s fold and crease the paper, once here and once over. Remember cutting half the outline of a paper doll then watching a chain of them shake loose in the air? Identical in bobbed hair and pleated skirts, hand in hand in hand, soon nubile-breasted. On the edge of the lake, a dark-haired woman walks barefoot, skimming stones and feeding bread to the swan draped around her shoulders. Winged silhouettes are always harder to do, so this time let’s try sheets of ice shaved into snowflakes. Cut out the shapes of prisms through which the light can fan, clear and cold, feathered lace against the skeletal branches. Hold them up against window glass: such flimsy tokens that we offer at the turnstile, as we pass.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.