The Kite

The wind a fickle thing today, but try I will, come what may, to fly my kite within the gray, banner dull, edges frayed.
The string has held so tight before, allowed my kite room to explore, the mountain top, the shallow shore, I pray it strength to hold once more.
I joyfully lift it to prepare, carefully stretch its wings to square, release a little string I dare, and raise it high to catch the air.
It fumbles awkward to and fro, teasing me but climbing slow, chaotic in its flamenco, I smile wide, my face aglow.
A sudden gust of wind was found! My kite is flying heaven bound!
But forces twist the strings around as it plummets to the ground.
I quickly run to meet my friend, broken wings in need of mend. My skills are lacking I contend. My lovely kite, is this the end?
Remembering how once it soared, I gather up my troubadour, tuck it gently in the drawer, melancholy evermore.
(Written early June 2017. The kite is a metaphor for broken love.)

