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The Inside Flying Kite
The Inside Flying Kite
by Lynn Martin
The
Chinese kite drapes its long, multi-colored tail around a beam, tethered
to the ceiling in my apartment by a thumbtack. It has never been flown,
this kite, but moves restlessly in vagrant drafts creeping under the door,
tugging at its string. I imagine it dreams of open blue sky and Spring.
Now it is February and I'm tugging
too. I'm dreaming of leaving the four blankets on the bed, the layered
clothing, heavy boots behind. I'm totally convinced Spring will never
come again. Surely the drifts outside my window, towering over my head
where the plow has deposited them, are permanent. Green is the color of
my longing. Blue is the sound of my desperation. This kite over my head
is without sky and thus without use. Which makes me think of the poetic
imagination.
Of what use are the leaps my imagination
provides? I begin with apples and arrive at the spaceship Challenger.
I think of snow and wander to the Aegean Sea. No matter if I've never
seen, felt, heard or known, I can dream it into reality. Soon I am holding
the kite's string, watching its flailing tail wrap around the wind, awed
by height and distance. My legs are bare, my arms are brown, and the sun
is hot against my back.
This is the way I survive both winters
and life. As long as I can dream, I am warm. The society we live in often
silences us. Our very existence can be invisible. So I dream of a world
where exploring silences is a primary occupation. Where I can get honest
criticism if I am acting out in a way that is destructive to myself or
anyone around me. Where I am encouraged to become my finest self, and
take that imaginative leap where I can be what a kite was meant to be.
Lynn Martin is a poet, AIDS educator, and writer who lives in Brattleboro.