The Butterfly Network

Books in the hallway, spines gone pale Colors and numbers, dust and tales “Deb, age three” written crooked on the back Yellow cars, blue birds, time slipped through the cracks Saturday light on a cardboard floor She says, “They don’t need us anymore” Across the river there’s kids with hands Empty shelves and borrowed plans So we took what was loved, what had already grown Put it in a box, let it find a new home Bus sighs open on Shelby Street Concrete warm under tired feet “Free books,” she says, voice small but sure No forms to sign, no cure to sell Loretta’s eyes say “prove it first” Earl laughs low, breaks the curse Dinosaurs pass from hand to chest Engines, rockets, someone’s best Index cards, first names only Tiny drawings so she won’t be lonely Every want is a note to keep Every Tuesday, promises to meet It ain’t a library, ain’t a plan Just a map drawn small by a kid’s own hand Stories moving, stop to stop Cardboard corners, ink won’t stop Twelve years old with a box and time Planting lines where stories climb Call it nothing, call it small But that’s how networks start at all