A blank page invites opportunity;
searches for a voice.
You fear her words,
so you sculpt her before she finds them.
She does not ease like clay, moulded
with warm, purposeful hands, but
bends; stiff and rigid.

You fold her into something pretty
or delicate or curious.
Only then can you gaze upon each deliberate
crease and see your work is done;
when a paper crane sits upon a dusty
shelf. Pleasant, polite,
quiet – yours.