By Jacqueline Peveto
Moving and Paper Planes
Goodbye
is crumpled paper—
no matter how I write them,
these three small words of mine
are too big to fit the page.
A party to send you off, a fit— I threw those, too.
The paper’s piled ankle-deep because my heart’s already full.
But maybe I’ll turn these creases into wings
and tuck my heart inside the folds
so I know when I let go,
this love will land
next to you.
The Greenhouse
Sometimes
I wish I were made of leaves
or cashmere yarn.
I would fold you in autumn and spring,
warming your ears
with whispers of change.
Sometimes
I wish I were made of cedar
or wise old stone.
“Memory of NY” © tanakawho (https://www.flickr.com/photos/28481088@N00/3051020609/)
I would build for you
a home anywhere
below the skies you dream of.
In fact
I’m made of shyness
and sheets of fitted glass.
I’m stiff and full of edges,
but these walls I made around you
are all I have.
I know you still feel the cold.
After all, glass is not cashmere,
not leaves.
But be warmed by sunlight—
Let me bring you flowers
when winter forbids it.
I know you still hear the wind.
After all, glass is not stone,
not cedar.
But let it rattle me—
Stand tall and upright
when so much would push you down.
Today
you are made of distance
and lonely words.
Your arms are tired
from hurling those words
into silence
Into other gardens
that look greener
than this one.
Today
you are made of bottled messages
meant for other shores.
And today
they are rocks
thrown through my windows.
Jacqueline Peveto is a writer, artist, and enthusiast for anything else involving imagination and paper. She completed a master’s degree in creative writing, and during her time as a student, she studied at the University of Oxford and in Japan. Her work has appeared in the Garbanzo Literary Journal and Tales to Go. She currently lives in Colorado, pursuing several writing projects.