Your father always said
you had to let go of the kite
when the afternoon of kite flying was over.
You had to watch it ascend erratically
above the trees, then drift over
towards Lake Michigan
with a new sense of purpose,
hit a wind draft, and disappear.
It was probably just laziness
on your father’s part, a refusal
to spend the time gently pulling
on the string, reeling the kite in
and then folding it up
to be used on another day.
You never questioned this, though,
and your parents mouthed platitudes
about nothing ever lasting,
and you can always purchase something new,
and that it was best to be like a kite.
It was too early for anybody
to worry about the environment,
if you were tired of something
you just threw it on the ground
or you let it fly over your head
and miraculously cease to…
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