Origami

At 12, I knew how to fold many animals and flowers. 

At 13, my grandmother died and I lost interest in things

Japanese.  Now I have forgotten most of the shapes,

But I still know how to fold the “Tsuru.”  If I take the time,

I can still make one that would not embarrass my

Baa-san. Twice, I have helped fold one thousand

Of these cranes for good luck.  Once at my own wedding

And once for my wife’s Father’s sixtieth birthday.

Yet, I have not once folded a perfect crane.  My finger

Tips grow white trying to crease each line precisely,

Like a good Japanese son-in-law.  I wish that I could get

The wings to unfurl in nice straight lines with their tips

Coming to a fine point, no white showing under the gold

Origami paper.  At 53, it has never happened. In fact,

I have noticed that my cranes are even worse than before. 

At 11, though, my daughters’ cranes are almost perfect.

The ease they apply to their folding, makes me wonder

How much of my clumsy struggle is the result of unnatural

Effort to make something that should never have been learned,

But felt, like the folding of my hand when I hold chopsticks

Or the way my daughters gracefully subdue their black,

Long hair with a few flicks of Japanese clips that make

Them look like the geishas on my grandfather’s old prints.

The ones I never showed to my daughters’ mother.