red booth

You threw the kite each time 
the wind blew leaves 
on top tree branches,
and our black diamond 
fell from sky
every time I ran, handles in hand
tangled left over right 
over gravity over matter
over some velocity equation 
gone awry,

but the point was never flight.
You and I on the baseball diamond
separated by the length of kite string,
a distance we accomplished
after a couple hours by the duck pond
discussing our worst sides--
anger and moods not yet displayed;
they didn’t sound bad, just unreal

and far removed 
like the handles from the kite
past from the future 
connected by what we might be
when the wind rolls our skies
and the kite flies.
 

- Cindy Childress