What am I?

As a child, its the one we'd like to keep
Rarely though it is used..
Lay in dust, waiting to fly high.
Catching a dreamer's eye,
It is flung, like it were a bird.
It turned and turned and
stopped at a grasp...

The momentum it relies on,
The moment before it takes flight...
It could turn its direction,
and go another way...
But, it bonds with the wind,
to and fro in an unspoken melody..
I take life when you give it,

I'm no kite, I'm a Frisbee.