Bare trees under a requiem of clouds.
Snow. Over the ground a gaggle of geese
Hustles across an expanse of nothing—
They haven't a prayer; not a kernel
Breaks through dirt; no hand scatters a repast.
The multitudinous graves of the good
Do not flare into flower. Sorrow
Lays itself down like an ancient Greek plot.

—But the boy has bought ballons, a bounty
Of faith tied with blue ribbon. He scribbles
Love's postscript in neon magic marker
Then lets them go, robustly, "to Father,"
Launching them from this lanscape of thunder
Into the starred theatre he calls heaven.