On the table, an origami bird.
My grandmother had made it just for me.
Like the crocheted tablecloth under it,
Was beauty which defied descriptive word.
Yes, our home was full of her artistry.
My mother made shelves where each one could sit.
Those things, too, rich pleasantries for the eye,
Carved and etched and scrolled with lines that were true
Seemed separate from the life that she knew.
They were made often with a late night sigh.
Thus, my destiny I cannot deny,
For I am shaped from the genes that I drew
Which Grandmother says isn’t something new—
Just the fate of an origami guy.

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