One
morning forty years ago I met the early light
And
chanced to see a flock of sparrows zipping out of sight.
I
realized that though the chance was only very slight
that
maybe I could fly as well-- if only I'd been right.
The
next day, which was sunny, and the sky was very bright,
I
took some wooden wings which would facilitate my flight
To
the summit of a mountain of a most astounding height,
And
I leaped above the ocean, and thus began my plight.
I grabbed
onto a mountain ridge and clung with all my might,
but
my grip was weak and shifting, and it wasn't very tight.
I
lost my hold and plummetted, but was I frightened? Quite.
A
universe of tragedy could not contain my fright.
The
ground flew swiftly skyward and the wind began to bite,
and
the flower of my heart was overshadowed by the blight
that
had mastered final wishes and my willingness to fight,
when
I landed in the ocean and the sky went blinding white.
A miracle
sustained me, and I woke up late that night.
And
now, four decades later, I have come back to the site.
And
as I stare into the sky, and I my memoirs write,
I
realize that I am quite content to fly a kite.