Kites

Come March we’d find them In the five-and-dimes, Furled tighter than umbrellas About their slats, the air In an undertow above us Like weather on the maps. We’d play out lines Of kite string, tugging against The bucking sideways flights. Readied for assembly, I’d arc the tensed keel of balsa Into place against the crosspiece, Feeling the paper snap Tautly as a sheet, then lift The almost weightless body Up to where it hauled me Trolling into the winds— Knotted bows like vertebrae Flashing among fields Of light. Why ruin it By recalling the aftermaths? Kites gone down in tatters, Kites fraying like flotsam From the tops of the trees.