From every day that passed, he made a paper bird
Knowing that when he reached 1000
He could make a wish.
In the corner of the room they piled high
So fragile, strongly beautiful
They stopped me in my tracks
Such poetry was going on behind closed doors )
They didn't say a word.
Though I knew each one was bursting just to tell
The thousandth of the wish it held upon its beak
The wish perhaps that he could pull down the night sky
And cut a suit from it
To find all secrets of the Universe
Scrumpled in the pocket ?
( And a thousandth of that wish would be a word of what he read
Which whispered in your soul would set your heart on fire )
Or maybe what he wished for was far more down to earth -
That he could walk along a beach and leave his footprints in the sand
Knowing somewhere, someone was following ?
( And a thousandth of that wish would be the sound of one wave crashing )
Or maybe what he wished for was simply that each day
He'd taste a certain happiness upon his lips
(And a thousandth of that wish would be one drop of what he tastes
Which landing on the tongue dissolves to song...)
I'm bursting too
To ask “What do you wish for ?”
But it's not thing a person says
So let this poem ask those words instead
“What is it that you wish for ?
And could you fold one thousandth of it up into a bird and pile it high ?”
If you can,
This poem is for you: Take it, fold it up into a bird.
And when there are 1000 of them soaring in the sky