Kite Poetry

I am this kite, the only focused object in the frame.
I am this shape in sharp relief.
I bear this hue; I clip this air;
Yet, you move me handily.

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How could you know?
We have not truly spoken in years,
though we share this landscape,
the air,
the solid cornflower expanse of sky.
Here we are, you facing me on the barren
remains of the winter wheat field.
I madly toss a message upon the cloudless dome
and hold tight to the string,
willing you to glance up
and look beyond the rippling cloth and sticks;
daring you to see me.

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A kite and a hopelss gesture,
too many trees to win today,
and no wind to carry the message.

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To the gods of their design


The lofty saints drift high
above a tortured sea
As mortals grasp a lowly raft
tossed most vehemently.
Above, no saint, and yet,
unlikely messengers
to cock a wink,
such saturated semphores.