Walking With My Brother

written 10/23/1978

Sometimes we soar so high,
Like a kite … that it seems
We might get lost in the clouds.

So far from earth’s gravity
That we might exist

Forever in space…
Separate from reality.

But our kite always returns;

Seldom does it crash to the ground.
Most often,
We pull it back of our own accord.

Slowly winding the string
Round and round the spool,
Covering, once again, its nakedness.

We tuck it under an arm and carry it home
Until another day…

“We must remember to do that more often!”
we assure one another.

But alas, we store it in a remote corner
Where it’s forgotten.

No mourning,
No tears…
Only spiders and cobwebs enjoy its existence

There in the back.