Kite Hill

Dry stalks

fragile and luminescent

like thin glass tubes

reflect gold and darkness, light and shadow.

And further: a field sprinkled with daisies,

a lake, a vista of marching snow-capped mountains

in a pearly scarf of cold mist.

The grass glows like a myriad emeralds,

the trees have lost their stark winter look

the branches are still transparent,

but leaf buds are tinting them with yellow,

each smiling the quiet smile of a pregnant woman:

the mystery of creation.

Sunny young voices

tug on invisible strings 
kites up on high 
and their fathers.

April-June 2012