st. francis square

I am made of paper; I dissolve in the rain, disappear in the wind, wait for you to write on me. I meet you in St. Francis Square; we are like a pair of mulberries in our cardigans, but the difference is this: I am a mulberry of mohair and laughter, fluttering with my two-dimensional eyes, and you are a mulberry of musky earth, purple and hard to discern. You freeze in the winter, compact in the rain, wait for me to grow in you.