AUTISM: A POEM
. . . . .XXII. Balloon Launch
My wife, my son, and I
. . . . .watch two dozen balloons launched
from the middle of a mud-filled
. . . . .meadow, each one rising like another
colorful sun suddenly added
. . . . .to the wide morning sky, shining
in bright reflection as it drifts
. . . . .into a slant of dawn light, reaches
toward farmland farther east.
. . . . .Every year we come here, hoping
to notice once more how
. . . . .these large objects float so easily
with even the slightest breeze,
. . . . .moving smoothly through the blue
fields above us, now cruising
. . . . .the wind current as quietly as those
final few scraps of clouds
. . . . .forging higher overhead, nothing
more than decorative remnants
. . . . .left over from yesterday’s storm.
I read your wife's post first. She writes wonderfully of Alex's delight in seeing and counting the balloons.
ReplyDeleteI like how your poem moves, carrying our eyes always upward, to imagine not just the balloons in "blue fields" but also to see beyond. The lines that stay with me: "... those / final few scraps of clouds/ forging higher overhead, nothing / more than decorative remnants/ left over from yesterday's storm". They seem to echo the rising and gradual disappearance of the colorful balloons themselves.
"decorative remnants of yesterday's storm" a fitting lesson for life in general. Viewing the storms of yesterday from the perspective of today's beauty. Thanks
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