The closely typed and printed pages of
an academic draft lie in the basket
screwed up and thrown higgledy-piggledy
screaming of frustration and anger.
Beneath lies the flat and restrained
text of a child's self-penned story
first draft in her own hand. I pour
my breakfast tea and ponder how
a recycling basket can say so much,
little sculptures expressing the mood
of their sculptor, how the paper
speaks of the trees it came from.