DISCORD TO HARMONY
April's playground is a graveyard of string
where the bones of old kites
blown over the rainbow
lie snug in the grass and lost to wonder
to the bird's eye view,
to the trembling wind.
March was the magic, was the aerial frenzy,
was the plunge line wish
to soar up out of time
spiraling out past the point of illusion
and trailing white tails
through a ragged sky.
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