Hilltop Flight

I clench my hand and hold on tight
To the string is tied a kite.
Beyond the pasture and the trees
Twisting, turning in the breeze.
Farther it flies beyond the wires
A beacon, like the smoke of pyres.
The rope burns my tender palm
But I remain patient, calm.
If only for a few more moments,
They will fall, my opponents.
One by one their kites plummet
As mine continues to reach its summit.
Steady, I hold it through each gust
Its tail glides, the color of rust.
Mesmerized by its dance,
I fail to hear all the chants.
A crowd cheers, a bell rings,
My kite and I, we are kings.

Poem by Clara Lehmann
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