At art time, we crafted Christmas paper, careful-kept,
reborn as tissue kites. Tethered rainbows with tattered tails
climbed into March, darted and leapt over playground minions.
A hawk on thermals glided, soared, swooped among the kites,
winged away, climbed high to wheel and hover, all below transfixed.
Back inside, teacher plucked a book from her shelf of verse,
“Listen with your heart,” she said. “Ride the words
like a hawk rides the wind or kites dance free.”
So I rode words that galloped on springs, swept off, soared again,
fell into now, cloaked in vermilion,
newest in my heart-cache of words.