JB (Aug.26,1989 / Huntington, NY)

Roof Kites

It breaks free from our hands
And drifts skyward, a breeze
Blustering, a dream fading,
Feeling as though our toy
Has found redemption
In a trailing tail, in flying—soil
Stains our hands, we climb
On roofs and fly these creatures,
Somehow hoping this
Will rub off on us,
Plastering the colored sky with
Their tails, long strings, their glides.
Later we wash our hands with
Soapy dishwater—not scoured at all,
Remembering vaguely
Of clean hands, kite flying.

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Rudyard Kipling

If

Comments (1)

something tells me that there is more to this poem than meets the eye, something I'm not quite getting...very intreguing. -landrey