There are kites
whose tails are too short
who, pinned up against the
felt blue sky, begin to
twist and turn and fly
in ways we do not anticipate,
and we, all children again,
hold tightly to the spool and string, and
imagine that we can will the wind
and hold our kite still,
some forever faraway patch
sewn into the firmament,
and the littlest of us will cry
when the thread breaks and our kite
escapes, some wood-winged bird,
into the clouds above,
and though we wish now
its tail would have been longer,
we would not trade
another foot of ribbon
for the way it danced
so high above our heads,
for the tug and pull
we felt as we held it
for the way our hearts
jumped as it dropped and rose again
in the summer breeze
and later in life, when we are old
and even the littlest one does not cry so easily,
we will, together, stand kite-less in a field,
and once more we will feel the sun upon our faces,
the wind across the high bones of our cheeks,
the grass beneath our still bare feet,
we will all look up and smile.
