Crinkled Missives

In her hands a piece of paper becomes a bird,
not one that waits outside his morning window
nor the one in western sky drawing down evening sun.

In her hands parchment bends and folds
into lines of virgin litany, a new exhalation placed
beside crinkled missives no longer requisite.

He knows the beauty of her master work, delicate,
sure of their duty to make flight, lift his heartbeat
until it soars, he prays someday she will believe.

.

.

.

Author’s Note:

Today I play with first lines. At Every Day Poems the lovely people at Tweetspeak Poetry offer a challenge. Sign up to receive a poem in your in-box each morning. Find a line that sings to you and use it as the first line of a poem of your own design.

My inspiration this day comes from The Robot Scientist’s Daughter by Jeannine Hall Gailey.

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