Kite Mornings

Three days ago a kite was snatched twisted in telephone wires
it lost its tongue
and the braggadocio of flight
went silent.
Two days ago it lost its frills
in the taunt of wind,
sun and dew will remove blush
by and by;
kites are life-proxies
for the pilikul bhavanava
the meditation on impermanence,
the decay of all things wonderful
the skin-deep of joy
perishes faster than flesh-bone swagger
and I watch kite-part drop
every morning I see a little boy
numbed in a string-less moment,
every morning I see him grow
taller and wiser
and wonder
how tall is tall enough
to catch kite and extract
from kite-piece
the pieces of his narrative
unwritten but read.

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