A gathering of many colors
on the end of taut cotton strings,
a multicolored randomness of kites.
Seeming unruly with no seen order,
each with its own message and apparently intent
on making its way by any meanness
and self-centered maneuvering,
every wind-blown challenge.
Winged acrobats perform
death-defying stunts. Some are blown into
frightening tail spins and even crashes.
Others, diving melodramatically
with sporadic upward climbs, escape
into cloud-hemmed, azure heights.
Then the sun seems to gild
and highlight the crimson,
gold, peach, and even black
and white papers anchored
on slender wooden crosses.
The kites are held in, what before
seemed to be a scattering,
but now is seen as
a structure for a lifetime.
Each, in his own way,
moving with skill and care,
working with the wind,
challenging the unseen billows,
not fighting the more powerful swells,
using his force and strength
to rise like a kite before the wind.
© by James Rogerson.
Used with the author’s permission.