This wasn't what he'd expected, since a wee little one,
contorting the edges of fallen wood made thin.
What was rectangle became a triangle,
what was just plain became more.
No fingers were used, a mind is a wonderous thing,
Never wasted on this little one.
Creation, Imagination, as parchment clean crisp,
contorted to conception. But when it went wrong
it rained snow flakes of ruptured imaginings,
Jagged and torn, papercutting those close.
Tears fell from his eyes as sorrow for skin bleed
not deep, but any more would have been a torment.
A thousand papercuts from a moment of
frustration could turn paper crimson.
From that interim, knowing the power paper
had, be it words shapes, meaning.
Learning that contours have potential and
wording on it was a powerful influence on others.
So began his journey as origami butterflies
fluttering around him, calmness followed.
Here child, as he handed a swan, and it swam
upon the innocence of there hand, and he walked onward.
