A thousand paper cranes is a wish 

A thousand colorful paper birds

A thousand folded wings and beaks

Together, a gift for the lost, a blessing for some hope

Yet I fold cranes not for love, but for hate 

One blue bird, from a winter morning of ice and snow

A red crane sunken to the bottom, a comment from a stranger

Green of a larger crane to fill up space, a lecturing definitely not needed

One by one, more and more, filling to the top

Will I ever reach a thousand? 

What wish would I make then? 

Would the jar I have, small and delicate, contain all the cranes? 

Or would it overflow, all beak and feather and wing?

Who would I give it to then?