Mary Lou (her nickname) is a classmate of mine from Douglass who writes lovely poems, which I have posted before.Â I just returned from State College where it was very windy. So Mary Lou’s poem on flying kites is perfect for Spring! Thanx, Mary Lou.
His blue eyes transparent as the sky,
follow the kite out like perspective
avoiding the cloud formation
while the sun implodes on his delicate blonde skin,
his fingers playing with the string stretched thin.
It came in a kit though he embellished it with his childish scrawl,
almost poking through the thin membrane,
but the dream remained aloft
in the give and take of the wild March wind.
His Kite was not the highest, but the longest lived
though his hands were the smallest to negotiate,
its highs and lows without losing track of it.
The contest was his, the prize of his choice,
the bride of his choice, as were all things he ever aspired to
born in that Spring wind with no strings attached.