Wednesday, July 10, 2024

Kite

 














What is not about this day?

A blown tangle of string,

White paper, bowed

Cross of wood dangling

By its tail from a tree limb

Outside my office, twisting

Itself into knots, spinning

When the wind drops. It wasn’t

There weeks ago and when I

Pull it down this afternoon

With a broom handle

It won’t be any less there

Than it is here and now.