Three poems by Patric Pepper

Picture Window

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

and ran.

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.