“Our Kite,” Friend, June 1985, 40
On warm summer evenings, when the wind is just right,
Daddy and I like to fly our kite.
We go up on the hill, where there aren’t any trees—
Just Daddy, and I, and the strong summer breeze.
We run into the wind, holding on to the string,
And our kite rises up like a bird on the wing.
Up, up, up it goes, swift and high,
Into the puffy clouds and summer sky.
It rises and soars; it dips and it sways
Up high where the birds and the airplanes play.
And Daddy and I sometimes like to pretend
That we’re riding there, ’way up high on the wind.
When we pull our kite down, we lie on the grass
And look at the white fluffy clouds as they pass.
Then we walk home together, as the day turns to night—
Daddy, and I, and our wonderful kite.