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,
Of clean hands, kite flying.