• I am folded
    again and again
    until creases form my body.

    I have no defined shape
    but rather the one given to me
    by nimble hands
    who fold me.

    I was once a butterfly.
    Someone found me
    thought my colors too dull for my form
    so they changed me.

    I was then a crane
    yet there was only one of me.
    I wished to fly away,
    find my brothers and sisters.

    Instead I found the ground,
    where I was left in silence.
    Forgotten.

    When she found me
    I was broken,
    torn corners and rough centers.
    I felt disfigured.

    But her soft hands
    creased my edges,
    folded my sides,
    and made me,
    me.

    I am a flower.
    Not a rose,
    though I was full of love.
    Nor a daffodil, bright in color.
    But I was a flower,
    loved by her hands.

    I could wish for no more.