Call me when the summer melts
and rain pelts down the windows
from where you launch paper planes
as daylight wanes, which crash land
in my yard, failing again
to come in through my window.
Poor weather is never right
to land a flight perfectly.
What dies is the message
whose passage is restricted
as the rain drops smudge the ink
in the wings and disappear
before I tear down the stairs

to collect soggy paper.