The Fan Opens

A paper fan opens
one narrow fold at a time.
What looked like a dark stripe
becomes the stem of a flower;
the next fold gives it leaves.

The whole design
was larger than the closed shape
allowed us to see.

Three minutes and thirty-six seconds
of music now exist
for a song drawn from world events.
Another song, shaped by conversation,
is still being made.

Duration gives one answer.
The words will need another kind
of attention.

A number cannot say
whether a name stayed clear,
whether a line became crowded,
whether the voice left space
for the weight of its subject.

Those are questions
to take to the sound.

The imagined fan opens farther.
Flower, leaf, flower, leaf,
then a bare rib
where the pattern pauses.

That plain strip
may give the eye somewhere to rest.
It may need work.
The difference deserves a closer look.

Keep the earlier fold in mind.
Change only what you can examine.
Let the new version show
what the change has done.

And when a story comes
from other people's lives,
leave room beyond its outline.
No painted flower
contains a whole season.

The fan opens.
Air moves.

The hand need not
open it farther
than the paper allows.