Monday, March 21, 2022


Once in a while, 
I try to imagine 
a perfect spring day—

much like today—
when I am no longer 
alive to record it: 

the adolescent sun 
and the vigorous wind, 

the transcendental mix 
of clouds and 
boundless light—

and then, there's 
the kid

racing with zeal
though a field 
of matted grass, 

his face knotted up 
in a smirk of delight, 

holding on 
tight to the string 
of a kite. 

But it's no use; 
the harder I try
to picture it, the worse

it seems to get. 
For starters, the kite 

isn't really a kite; 
instead, it's a bird.

And the kid 
is not delighted; 
his face is all grimace, 

and he's running 
for his life—as if 
being forced, 

during the eye 
of some terrible storm,

to run for his life 
and hold tight to my