Three nights running I’ve seen
November’s Frost (or Beaver) Moon
pause at my window in passing.

Gravity brings it on a lariat
past earthbound me, amid the rodeo
of spheres in the night watch.

I pretend love is involved:
Mother Earth like every wise parent
allows impetus while holding on.

The girl asked, one wild March:
“If the string breaks, Dad, the kite—
won’t it fly away from us?”

From my understanding
of aerodynamics I explained it thus:
how her kite stays airborne

by resistance to the string,
trying to get free of earth and join
prevailing winds by adoption.

After saying it, I noticed ten
fingers tighten on quivering twine;
her own orbit, round my life.

– Russell Rowland