March

The wonder of the high-flying kite
Resides in the string that tethers it
To your hand: it is a wedding ring
Unreeled to its full, true extent,
It is the laserbeam of love we feel
From the blue immanence above
Straight to the ache and pulse within
The skin's stout glove, it is this tingle,
This tug, this boing of telepathy
With the wind-frayed Olympian clouds,
It is the first hint we have of the size
Of the sky and our lives added up together.