Member Poem

The kite man rides
the nape of the wind
before the storm,
trailing swirls
of dark cumuli
like a thunderous cape,
swallowing draughts of sky.

Flexible as avian bones,
the struts and pinions
of his intricate contrivance
believe for the moment
they are lighter than air.
His moire of radiant silk
billows and ripples,
snaps and billows again.

Far beneath him
he sees the shadow play
of lengthening clouds
race his own solo shadow
as it crumples and dips
across the topographical
inflections of the world.

Seamed yet unbounded
the countryside unravels:
a patchwork of rivers,
forests and fields,
a ragged crosshatching
of fences and roads,
distant cities illuminated
by the lights at dusk.

By the time droplets
have darkened the earth
in a quickening rush,
a weary kite man
rests by the fire's roar,
sipping mulled wine
from a steaming stein,
raising the chill
from his weathered bones.

Yet the thrills 
that still plumb 
the depths of his chest
and strum along his thighs,
tell him he is truly
a creature born
for the art of flight.

Appeared in Xenophilia #7, 1994