poem

this katydid has angel wings, you’ll find, and makes 

sounds of cheerfulness in a world of little.

I’m sure in every fold there is a koan. perhaps, a 

rustle of rice paper in a lacquer box of ancient odor

of sandalwood, perhaps, of new-mown hay...

inside, there is the anatomy of an origami. 

fold, fold, fold, and somehow, then, create:

you have never known the calligraphy of one wing 

of any insect’s flight, yet find them common. 

rise on your own wings! create a geometry of the 

tissues of leaves along your body’s flights of fancy! 

each is different than the next...and yet: when they  

rise to the sky at once, the whispers of green fill all,

with every breath of everything....