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.