Messages fly through the air,

folded notes

and paper planes

carrying secret words,

confessions of love,

and guilt,

and shame.

 

So innocent;

that creased piece

of loose leaf,

hastily torn

from a binder,

or a notebook,

just to ask the question,

“Do you love me?”

Circle “Yes”,

or circle “No”.

 

The next moment

anticipation,

of assent,

or denial,

but before it comes,

an aircraft lands

at your feet.

Crudely folded,

fledgling flight,

only crafted to ask,

“Are we hanging out after school?”

and on and on.

 

The watchful eye of the teacher

meant every flight classified.

Notes passed

clandestine dead drop,

like a spy.

We would pray

we were never compromised,

knowing the fates of kids

who had to eat their words,

lest they be forced to speak them.

 

How is it now,

with the technology

of near field communication

withering the page?

Do all the notebooks stay untorn?

Does anyone

still know how to make

paper planes?

 

 

HG – 2021