Such beauty captured near the library.

Golden Balloons

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as what’s in the tree.

Helium foil coiled and prest

Against the arbor’s flowing crest;

Gold that looks at God all day,

And wind that crease her arms to pray;

Glitter that may in winter wear

A nest of pigeons in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

My poem brands me a fool who swoons,

But only God makes golden balloons.

The Golden Balloon, Fallen like Icarus via Author