Take my hand and let us run.
For my heart is but a poorly stitched kite,
and you…
you, my dear are the mighty gale,
which sweeps me off to round the sky,
sailing in a gust of Aeolian ecstasy.

I hope never to feel the prairie again,
though…

Tethered only by a thin string,
are you and I, my captain, my sailor.
The wind that blows in your breast,
Unknowingly holds my trampoline frame,
in such stark relief against an ever,
ever changing horizon.

Sebastian Sandok

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-steady-squall/