Slippery illusions and hidden meanings,
fold together into the origami of the self.
Stupid, meaningless shapes.
Hanging in a mobile,
spinning in the wind of life.
Moving when ever the wind comes.
Something like fate.
But I suppose we choose the shapes
and the order in which they hang.
It changes the effect of the passing wind.
Shaper crisp edges
or sloppy soft ones on wrinkled paper?
Quality depends on the starting stock.
Everything comes back to its beginning.
Life circles like the mobile.
Repeating it over and over
until the wind stops.
Splashes of sunlight and darkening shadows,
alternating places as it spins in front of the window.