Fortunata Saves The Day Poem by Sonny Rainshine

That year you were airborne.
Like a sheet of loose-leaf paper
you ascended, tumbled, dipped—
intricate as an origami dove,
but also made of paper.

Yes, it was a good climate for you;
I was in the doldrums that year,
but the Fates were writing
masterpieces on your pages,
on your fragile wings.

But the Fates are not famous for fidelity.
Your fortunes shifted course that December.
as sudden downpours and wet snow,
saturated the pith of your soul, turned
your paper wings to pulp
and all the bright hopes written there
bled gray on white to become indecipherable.

It was about that time that we met.
I was riding high and the sun
radiated hope. My pages were crisp and perfect
and a tabula rasa. I picked you up
and began to read. I read about
your dazzling year and how it ended.

As we walked home in the lingering rain,
I wondered: how many pages
does it take to make a book: one, two?