Enough Air

In an imagined picture,
a red kite hangs above a field.
Its string leads down
to a hand outside the frame.

That slender line changes everything.
The red shape has a reason
to lean against the blue.

Give the grass one wind.
Let the shirt sleeve follow it.
Keep the sun where it was
while the colours grow more bold.

A picture can change its voice
and still remember
which way the light falls.

Now try the scene as a lyric:
a red kite over the field,
a red kite over the...

Breathe.

The missing word waits
while the lungs make room.
On paper, the line could travel farther.
A singer has a body
and the phrase must learn its distance.

Shorten one word.
Try the line again.
Does the image still arrive?
Does the ending leave
enough air for what follows?

The string holds.
The rhythm loosens.

A small delay can make
the familiar sky seem wider,
as though the eye had taken
one unhurried step back.

Keep both attempts:
the line that reached too far,
the line that found its breath.

There is something to learn
from each length of string,
and from the red scrap
still tugging at the sentence.