fLYING KITES

Being a Kite

Jacqueline Sweeney

If I were a kite

I'd kneel,

stretch my skinny arms

out wide,

and wait for wind.

My yellow shirt would

fill up like a sail

and flap,

tugging my criss-crossed

wooden bones and me

towards seas of cloud.

My rippling paper skin

would rustle like applause

as I inhaled,

gulping one last

gustto swoop me giddy-quick

above the trees.

My red rag tail

would drift

toward everything green

to balance me

so all day

I could

loop and climb

loop and climb

and soar

into pure sky.