The Kite


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.