Go Fly A Kite

Building a kite with my dad was a day so pure and good
Using paper from the comic strips and thin strips of balsa wood.
Rags, not too heavy nor too light, perfect balance for the tail
Waiting for the ideal day – a breeze, a gust, but not a gale.
Clouds moving quickly, threatening rain, across a sky of gray
I ran to the top of the highest hill, my hair in disarray.
Running backwards, falling down in the tall wet grassy field
The feeling unsurpassed, of incomparable joy unconcealed.
I was lucky, my kite flew so high; it wheeled and dipped and soared,
Searching for its freedom, seeming as if it implored,
It danced a beautiful ballet, the sky and kite embraced
Suddenly it was just a dot; in a cloud it was encased.
I remember the feel of the pull on the string; the string was at its end.
I took my knife and cut it free – where would it descend?
I wondered – would someone find it, would it some day reappear?
It’s still there in my memory of childhood’s stratosphere.