Member Poem

His poems were kites that reached such heights,
   nary a soul could see them.
Their shapes were eagles, swallows, seagulls,
   dragonflies. I’ll free them,

he thought, let go their strings! “Hello,”
   they said to every bird
that flew nearby. (They sure weren’t shy.)
   Pretty soon the word

about those soaring poems were pouring
   from mouth to ear worldwide.
Binoculars weren’t aimed at stars
   but verses that could glide —

until last spring, when every string
   attached to every poem
was snatched like a note from a sparrow’s throat,
   and all the kites came home.

Now everyone, in April sun,
   could closely scrutinize
those gaudy toys full of the noise
   of words that reached the skies.

What did they say about the jay,
   the red-tailed hawk, the swift?
Not much. “The breeze was bracing. Please,”
    they cried, “give us a lift!”

The kite-poems screamed, yet the people seemed
   as clueless as the flowers
were of the bees, or as the trees
   were of the vernal showers.

But soon he played again and made
   more magic kites; but these
he made less showy (for when it’s snowy).
   Though fearing they would freeze,

he let them blow out toward the snow
   that overspreads K2
or Everest. If they’re suppressed?
   He’ll just begin anew.