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
burden.
