A Golden Strand of Kites

Laura Corrigan
My arms rise up tightly bound by a hundred strings.
The threads are invisible; silently, they rip
 through the wind. I fly forward, ushered
 by a glistening harp, a soft chorus of kites.
The tails rattle wearily shy against the blooming sky.
They tug forward. I surrender. When did this glide turn into a hover?
Even this steering splendor can’t spark any impulse to move on my own.