Kite Flying

The kite at the end of the string in his hand

Holds the other end ofa rope

That turns as the wind jumps over it in a game

Played in the bright yard that lies between cloud and

head.

Earlier he sent a message up its thin slope

Carefully written and folded. It went, "I love you."

Now he pretends he's forgotten who it is to,

But wonders if he'll get an answer from anyone.

Over an orchard of downed Northern Spies,

Rotting in boozy heaps by the old quarry,

The lax string carries his letter, his worry.

It travels like a country train, forever stopping.

Anyhow, suddenly, he starts to wind in,

Watching and jerking the string skillfully,

Carefully hauling the green tissue diamond down-

Always away from the trees, playing the line.

Then he sits down and winds like a spinner

Busy with golden threads and no nonsense.

And as his message slowly comes back to him,

The wind sends it away and he goes home reasonably to

dinner.