when we burns ourselves down
and others come
to sift through the embers
maybe find a few trinkets

will they be able to tell
which ashes came from us
and which came from the stake
we tied ourselves to?

You called the kite Buford
(you always had a knack for names)
I ran in the sand, and threw the kite up
While you clutched the strings tight
And as I walked back
I saw the joy in your eight-year old eyes
Saw your heart surfing the breeze
In that blue Georgia sky

We still have that kite in the basement
The strings are tangled
A pole is broken
I don't know if you even
Remember his name
Or that moment
He'll probably never fly again
But in another way he'll never come down
For as long as I can hold on to
Your face in the sun