I am chasing the kite or,
Is the kite chasing me?
Over a field of wild strawberries,
my feet smash the sweet fruit,
filling the air,
My heels stained red with their juice.
I am laughing, laughing, laughing.
Wait is this me?
I’m just a baby,
No wonder the kite lifts me off the ground,
And places me back down again.
“That is right, little one”, a voice says.
It is not mama’s.
Then whose is it?
“Follow the kite.”
“Where will you take me?” I answer.
Mama says that. Is it mama I hear?
“Not mama, papa.”
StormWeaver is a continuing story told in 100 word increments. To read from the beginning, choose StormWeaver in categories