That year you were airborne. <br />Like a sheet of loose-leaf paper <br />you ascended, tumbled, dipped— <br />intricate as an origami dove, <br />but also made of paper. <br /> <br />Yes, it was a good climate for you; <br />I was in the doldrums that year, <br />but the Fates were writing <br />masterpieces on your pages, <br />on your fragile wings. <br /> <br />But the Fates are not famous for fidelity. <br />Your fortunes shifted course that December. <br />as sudden downpours and wet snow, <br />saturated the pith of your soul, turned <br />your paper wings to pulp <br />and all the bright hopes written there <br />bled gray on white to become indecipherable. <br /> <br />It was about that time that we met. <br />I was riding high and the sun <br />radiated hope. My pages were crisp and perfect <br />and a tabula rasa. I picked you up <br />and began to read. I read about <br />your dazzling year and how it ended. <br /> <br />As we walked home in the lingering rain, <br />I wondered: how many pages <br />does it take to make a book: one, two?<br /><br />Sonny Rainshine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fortunata-saves-the-day/
