The Kite

She was not of
my blood,
assigned to me
through trauma
unspeakable,
no longer
innocent,
but longing
to be a child.

Somehow in
our stilted words
I came to know
she'd never
flown a kite.

She was a 
teen, and refused
to try
and yet once
we were at the beach,
our shabby homemade
kite, with tail of scarves,
her constant scowl
was melted.

A smaller child was
struggling with
and enormous
monster, grabbed by
updrafts, and
she flew to help
and laughed
and I caught the
first shy smile
in a backward glance
as she anchored
someone else.

The kite I built
had crashed,
but the bridge 
I built
stayed true.
Her smiles
while wary,
shown through the
clouds from time 
to time and
now, 
decades later,
and she'll text 
on random 
days, and I 
will feel the
warmth of that
first shy smile.

---

April 25 #CRFAprilNationalPoetryMonth

Today’s graphic poetry prompt was:

I was a licensed foster parent in the late 80s-early 90s, it was as heartbreaking as it was rewarding – in equal measure. I have great regard for the many good folks in Social Services and who Foster – we only ever hear about the bad ones (like the police) when the majority of people doing the jobs are decent and good and doing their best with what they’ve been given.