You threw the kite each time
the wind blew leaves
on top tree branches,
and our black diamond
fell from sky
every time I ran, handles in hand
tangled left over right
over gravity over matter
over some velocity equation
gone awry,
but the point was never flight.
You and I on the baseball diamond
separated by the length of kite string,
a distance we accomplished
after a couple hours by the duck pond
discussing our worst sides --
anger and moods not yet displayed;
they didn’t sound bad, just unreal
and far removed
like the handles from the kite
past from the future
connected by what we might be
when the wind rolls our skies
and the kite flies.
