A Paper Airplane Type of Change by Lauren Winkelman

I think of the white sheet in my hand

that used to stand, green and upright. 

Did it have rotten roots 

that gripped dead soil? Was its trunk

a hiding spot for brown treasures 

from a squirrel who is now

without a home? Was it scared

by the axe cut, did sap run

sticky, like blood? When it fell, 

did its wooden arteries reach for

the hole in the earth 

where it once stood?

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What about me, heartstrings

that coil moldy, guarantees that spoil

me as I still grapple for weeds

that choke out my air? If I’m chopped

down and remade like that tree, will I

be tucked, crimped, new, or thrown

into a waste bin? Or will my rough

skin become smooth and thin

and crease into wings?

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