If left to its own nature, a propensity
might turn to ardor, passion, frenzy, blow
away like a child's helium balloon,
bright, free, diminishing, but visible
above. You tethered certain cravings,
but with an expandable leash, let them go
off as if by themselves, in the breeze, and high.
Then, one tug, or a few, and they were back—to hold,
exchange or re-inflate, relaunch or pop.
Advisers told you to pull down and guard
those Mylar® colors, chest them at your heart!
You turned into a six-year-old and laughed
proud of the shiny silver laced with red
bobbing in the sky for all to see.
You never saw the sense in hiding gifts.
Once, when you almost lost one in a storm,
you changed its string for cord, then sturdy rope
which dragged the air ball down—but you found this
a small price. Lately, though, recalling shrinkage
in past balloons, you’ve changed your mind, and at
the risk of looking like a fool, you tie
with even lighter twine and let a wind
slice each one free so it can fly away—
even from yourself—as high as the sky will allow.
Well you, my friend, my onetime reader, you
are my balloon. I lost you in a storm;
you soared beyond the rain. My only dream:
that you shall find a way back down again.