The Growing Mound

Fingers working over and over the creases
A paper fold worn through
Steady, tidy pressure and it releases
Two pieces, now more
Busy fingers not mincing carrots
Not digging up dirt or splinters
Not rubbing blood out of cotton in a shallow basin of bleach
Mindless and purposeful a pile increases
Each a perfect, rounded paper square
Ripped from something larger
Never to ease back into the whole