Paper Kite

Tangled by its tail in the still-bare limbs
of that old black elm, twirling and crackling
there, in a hard March wind, dangling upside
down like the escape artist in his white sack.

The tail twisted up like a rung-out shirt,
with that ― you know ― second level of twist,
suggesting a spiral staircase. And when
the wind calms down, it unwinds for a bit ―
and reposes a nervous chrysalis ―
before rewinding ― yet again.

The leaves of spring and summer will cover
its stripping ― all its paper gone by fall ―
and so there leaving for the winter view:
the spine and the spar of a balsam cross.