Flutter

Tiny scraps of paper are riveting,
Their edges fuzzy where they were torn.
Each one, a different shape.
Each one, a different size.
Each one, a different thing.

Held up to the light,
The paper seems thin and webbed.
Falling to the ground,
It seems as solid as granite.

This could pass the day away.
Paper up, paper down.
Minutes, hours.
Where does the time go?
It is swallowed by the paper
With the fuzzy edges.


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I have a new student. She loves paper and trash. Any scrap or tatter of anything becomes her treasure. She collects the pieces in her tiny fist until she has a quiet moment alone. Then she drops each one from a height a few inches above her head, watching it flutter down to the ground. Within two minutes, she dismantled an entire brand-new pad of PostIts. I think she could probably do it for hours, if she weren't interrupted. If she weren't pulled into my world to do tasks that are more "acceptable." She would probably be happy, just getting lost in the paper.