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The Crane

  • A Poem By Kathleen Kraft
  • Jan 10, 2016
  • 1 min read

The little paper crane sits on top of the radio

ready to lift up and fly around the apartment.

I folded it into existence. Now it sits, always sitting, sometimes tipped on one wing— What can I do?

I have everything. I have nothing. I am like the crane, folded and ready.

—Kathleen Kraft

 
 
 

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