A kite with faded colors
and unwoven threads,
once made with care,
now not much more than shreds.

It hovered with sorrow
longing to fly free,
but found it was held fast
by an unwavering string.

The cord was not much to look at,
most people would say.
But it was charming to the kite
in its own humble way.

It was vulnerable in places
and had a knot here and there,
but it never once faltered.
In its task, it took care.
It held the kite tightly
and made sure it stayed.
Otherwise, the high aiming kite
would surely float away.

Although the twine was secure,
gripping the helpless kite,
without the kite’s grasp,
the string would never take flight.
The able piece of rope would’ve
spent all its days
lying dormant on the dust,
never to be raised.
The kite helped it dream,
to see the sky and clouds,
and the string made sure
they both stayed near the ground.

The kite had seen other ropes,
crafted more tasteful and long.
They were appealing on the surface,
but never as strong.
They always broke off,
not steady enough to stay,
but this plain, simple cord
was there day after day.

The kite learned to love it,
saw beauty out and inside.
They weren’t sure if they’d make it,
but they’d undoubtedly try
to hold each other in place
until the end of their time.

A simple, sound string
and a half-broken kite.