— by Rita Goodgame —
It’s time, my son, let’s fly that kite,
we’ll run while strong gales blow
in meadow lands where March winds bite
and dry last winter’s snow.
I’ll raise it high while you hold taut
the twine unravels fast.
It’s where my old kites raced and sought
winged trophies in the past.
My son’s face changes like two masks
a shift from frown to smile.
In revved-up-windblown steering tasks
he spools his own kite style.
Airborne the swift bird is on fire.
My son you’re now “kite king.”
I’ll read my book and when you tire
I’ll gladly hold the string.
“A longing fulfilled is sweet to the soul…”
—Proverbs 13: 10-19
© 2007 by Rita Goodgame. All rights reserved.
Image © Richard Thomas / Dreamstime.com © 2007