I know she folds left over right

folding, with care, my fork, my spoon, not for me, or you, but for the sake of folding

and I do not know her thoughts, if she thinks of boys or girls, or if her earrings match

the green in her shirt, or if that last paper she wrote was as good as she wished.

I know she folds left over right, quietly spoon over knife, the ring on

her right hand glinting in the dim light

and that is all we do