She did not have soft hands
Her hands were red.
Her hands were a boneyard.
Her hands were tired.
But through all the folds and shapes
Out of her paper mistakes
She made cranes.
She made them for the people she loved
And sometimes, the people she hated.
The cranes stood in her favourite places
Or they marked “I would literally rather be anywhere else right now”.
A blue one for Portland
A red for Sanfransisco
Yellow for,
She stops.
He always said he loved the colour yellow.
Time withered on and she withered with it
Soon, she was gone.
And as if the people had nothing left of her
They wepped.
Yellow, he thought.
He looked up through his sorrows
A yellow paper crane
Peered about on a windowsill
What once blended in the crowd
Now stood out like treasure
Some say the paper cranes flew that day
She would have liked that.