An old hippie guides a fragile kite into the air. It is cut by hand and twined around a wooden spool. The string holds back the paper heart from being loosed into the sky. A tender blue tail of the thinnest crepe, sprinting in its wake. The man dances it in swift circles above my head. I watch it swoon and dive in the bleached sky, deciphering meaning from chaos until water leaks from my eyes. 

Up the shore, my children swim. 
They fall, scream, right themselves, fall again. 

The tiny valentine writhes above my head, alive and taught against its line. 
 My open heart— a gaping panfish flummoxed by the bob and weave— reaches for his paper one.