She'd climb
the ancient
leaning hedges
just
to look
at the thousand
cranes
made of curious
gray paper
(she'd been told
they once were red,
but grew so old
that all their color
had bled out, staining
the dried leaves
on the ground below
a dangerous pink).
Busily engaged,
in discourse with her secrets,
she didn't hear
the quarter moon—
who hated to interrupt—
until he whispered,
a gentle breeze
in her left ear,
It's time, it's time.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
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