Limbs at strange angles
Touching another tree’s boughs
Blocked his view.
His “whys and I don’t knows”
Pulled each string
Of each kite he flew.
But each kite came on a tumble
With the one he flew for me.
There,
His hands let go
Of all those strings
He held on for years,
Ran and tripped past those craggy trails,
And caught the only paper-thin portion
I ever held with him.
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