String Theory

As the morning sun lifts above the pines

There is a single strand of - what to call it

Since it is not a web nor it seems even the

Interrupted intention of one, but the faith

Of this small spider in a single gesture,

Not the reflection but emanation of light,

And perhaps its purpose is only to bridge

Where it has come to where it came from,

A way back to what it remembers. And I

Am returning across sixty years to the kite

My father made, thin strips of balsa wood

And bright red tissue paper, not like other

Kites but the shape of an open box, and how

I knew then and even now that such a thing

Could never fly and yet it did, and does,

Still holding on to the string and the faith

To follow a kite long out of sight, back to

Where it first flew from my father's hands.





Poetry by countryfog
Read 809 times
star mini Editors' choice
Written on 2012-10-28 at 15:59

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josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
This is a passionate remembrance indeed. It draws tears from my eyes.

Joe
2012-11-22


John Ashleigh The PoetBay support member heart!
A powerful sense of nostalgia written with sentiment and grace. This truly deserves the editors choice, countryfog. A potent and original piece of literature. Thankyou for sharing it with us. *applaud*

Regards,
John.
2012-11-03


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Well done, Fog. There is a difference between showy and elegant. This poem represents the latter.
2012-10-31


Editorial Team The PoetBay support member heart!
This text has been chosen to be featured on the front page of PoetBay. Thank you for posting it on our poetry web site.
2012-10-31


ngaio Beck
Bittersweet!
2012-10-30



Of course this brought to mind my father and the time we flew a kite together. It didn't end well.

I have sat outside and watched those white filaments float by against a blue sky, watched in wonder as sometimes they drift by for hours, dozens of them, and of course I wonder about their purpose, or is it a disruption, a mistake, a mooring broke loose.

Box kites are a wonder. I can't begin to understand the physics of them.

Nice to read your poems again. They bring familiar images to mind, sometimes long forgotten images, as in this case.
2012-10-28


shells
Bitter sweet memories, it jolted me into nostalgia about my own father which was welcome and a reminder of my age, there is a of of looking back, much enjoyed.
2012-10-28


Peter J. Kautsky
Flying the kite must be as important as knowing where it came from. Interesting poem. Pete
2012-10-28


ken d williams The PoetBay support member heart!
Happy happy menorrys C F. Your sharing your story , reminds me of what my dad made for us children. Happy happy days. Thank you.
Ken
2012-10-28