the kite

I used to hold the spool in one hand,

tight like a secret I couldn’t reveal,

and, with the other, I held onto you.

I was afraid to let you lift,

afraid to let the wind

carry you up and further.

Who would I be but a loser on the beach

left standing with nothing

but a cardboard cylinder?

I wish I’d known then

what I’ve learned from letting go.

I wish I’d known then

what you look like when you soar.

Now I’m the spool,

spinning, wondering, wondering

just how high you can rise,

and I can hear the buzz

of the rapidly unwinding thread,

and I can feel the pull

of the rough-and-tumble wind,

and I can see you darting

between the blinding rays

while all I know to be

is amazed.

Some day the line might break

and I’ll feel the quick release

of someone sailing onward,

but that, I believe, is better

than to feel the slow compression

of clinging

to someone who needs to fly.