Paper Kites

Paper Kites

The early evening always realizes 

My lack of resistance. It whispers to shadows,

Stirring them toward quiet rebellion. They grow

Taller than their masters, taller than me.

I move slowly through the house,

Drifting on the light of an over ripe peach,

It drips down the windows,

staining my table and papers , passing behind the eyes

Of the dog, changing him for a moment

Into a ghost. I share each room

With silence and the smell of hydrangeas. They love 

this light too. Outside my window they stand guard

Against the dust on the roadway. 

In the early evening there is also the Juniper

on the distant hillside

Where children lay

Their bodies flat against the earth, arms and legs

Stretched out, reaching 

and then rolling down, laughing and calling out

To one another. If I were with them I would speak

More like my mother and refer to jackets as parkas,

Feeling the importance that they zip them up, 

As not to catch cold. But it is summer

And I am not my mother, and nor was she hers. 

Its the modesty of growing old

That makes us realize we are all part

Of the same thing, soft and ripened,

Descending behind the trees with little struggle.