The Work

Suppose you scribe your poem
on an ample linen page—
hand-wrought, taut
but with a supple weave.

Now envision a pair of Japanese shears
in a crafter’s practiced hands.
She cuts a fine notch in the paper.
Another deft slice—
                                      two elegant scraps.
Suppose they bind together
with invisible sap, become
wings of a luna moth.

Suppose you are also that craftswoman.
Suppose poetry is flight.

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