The wind will blow as it will,
And whenever the wind blows, there my kite goes
Yearning, straining against the string.
Tiny tugs, tentative as fish nibbling, never taking
The line, and I stand still;
Shading my eyes against a blinding sun,
The string still wrapped
Tautly about my hand — thinking
That this kite
Might make a sudden solo flight,
And I might see whose pull is stronger.