Fly
A belated graduation poem for Roshan Shah
I.
The skipping of the kite spool
through your slim fingers
left faint troughs
in your palms.
They were filled to the brims
with the utter blue
of spring skies
and sunlight speckled
with pollen.
I could feel it sifting
through my skin,
in my hair, in the folds
of your sheets.
II.
Our kite soared
for a moment.
Bare feet pounding
through cool grass,
we ran to pull it taut
until the thin white floss
snapped in my fumbling hands.
Pyotr Petrovich stared down,
enmeshed alone
in a leafy lattice
for the neighbors to find,
his bright plumage offending
the Pennsylvanian sparrows.
III.
When late one night
we perched on branches
I told you poetry
is everything.
And sometime,
when the words were ready,
your poem would come
(as if I knew anything of poetry
or its comings
and goings).
IV.
It is now.
Give it
some slack.
Your kite is dancing
in a new wind,
coming from nowhere
and going
in all directions.