My Paper Birds

I turn my letters into paper birds

Of pink and peach, cream and yellow

To fly to you;

A letter can be a robin or a swallow

In inks of flashy blue.

Other times, like a weaver bird

One builds its designer nest

Of ochre in the labyrinth

Of your intricate chest.

My own reward is the velvet calm

When my letters rest in the

Tortoise shell of your generous palm,

As you read lines specifying a time and a place.

(I think of the cup of tea

Your lips shall lace, and then

I shall drink from the very cup

Where you leave your trace.)

My paper birds shall sleep

In a fabric folder on your desk

At home; their work done,

They fly to you in the evening sun.

Meanwhile, in the morning,

A new paper bird in black calligraphy

Prepares to roam.