It being her job,
she made her son put on his scarf
under his winter coat before he sent himself
to his job,
into the March wind
to a sky filled with quickly moving gray-black clouds,
to fly his kite,
to this time make it stay up.
He believed he would someday tame the wind
and make it stay up.
She held the kitchen storm door,
itself almost a kite in her hand,
as he maneuvered his diamond-shaped Hi-Flier
with “Playmate of the Clouds” printed across it,
onto their acre of wind,
where he held it aloft in one hand,
let out some string,
ran, and let go,
let out more string and more string
The kite climbed the wind like a stampeding steer
held fast by a bit of string in its nose.
It dipped left and right and rose fast and fell,
wild as the scudding clouds behind it,
then plummeted and crashed,
as if wrestled from the sky by the wind itself.
More tail! she thought,
standing with her fingers to her lips,
watching from the picture window.