The Kite

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I used to hold the spool in one hand,
tight like a secret I couldn’t reveal,
and, with the other, I held onto you.

I was afraid to let you lift,
afraid to let the wind
carry you up and further.

Who would I be but a loser on the beach
left standing with nothing
but a cardboard cylinder?

I wish I’d known then
what I’ve learned from letting go.

I wish I’d known then
what you look like when you soar.

Now I’m the spool,
spinning, wondering, wondering
just how high you can rise,
and I can hear the buzz
of the rapidly unwinding thread,
and I can feel the pull
of the rough-and-tumble wind,
and I can see you darting
between the blinding rays
while all I know to be
is amazed.

Some day the line might break
and I’ll feel the quick release
of someone sailing onward,
but that, I believe, is better
than to feel the slow compression
of clinging
to someone who needs to fly.

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