Hot Air Balloon

29 October 2020

Sitting in a waste-paper basket
drifting off
into oblivion
waiting for the rest of the world
to follow.

The earth is an acrylic treat,
an impressionist spattering
of quiet vermillion, lilac grey,
oak brown.

Our balloon leaves a mark
in the sky. It’s a shadow,
an omen telling ground dwellers
to leave, to fly.

We can’t spend forever here,
suspended in the air
and when we land
our woven enclosure tips

so we teeter backwards and gasp
at the balloon that threatens
to swallow us whole,
but it sets like the sun.

We dust ourselves off, tilt
our heads back and stare
at the sky we lived in

momentarily, before we roll
up the balloon
play with it like a toy,
and finally tuck it away
like a dream.

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