An Old Kite

wrapping in and out
of fingers, held tightly by hand.

The same hand
held by past lovers
and all the others.

Each breeze, current, flow by the ocean side
point a new direction, new journey to go.

A kite inevitably follows.
A kite is paper-thin.
A kite isn’t meant to last.

As a breeze turns to storm,
the kite slips from hand,
out to the ocean
into the hand of another.

Another lover,
another new held hand,
an old kite