Origami of Time

Time folds itself, paper that breathes,
in the hidden palm the mist gently settles;
every crease holds a beat of silence,
an horizon closes in a small sigh.
The invisible hand guides it, secret and calm,
the origami of mist takes shape in breath;
when unfolded, time remains in pocket like a sail,
and minutes become tiny chronicles of cold.
At the last edge, the world fades and stays suspended,
the present folds itself, then vanishes in breath;
in the hidden palm memory reflects, quiet.