I love the sound of propeller planes overhead,
the simple promise of flight in that sawtooth stutter,
from behind clouds, pledges blue sky – nothing but! –
for the rest of the yellow afternoon

you and I are
balloons

we dive from a wing onto freshly baked air,
it will hold us as far as we’ll go,
stretched out wide, we glide away,
aloft, astride shimmers of light

like haze from below
the friendly wind rises
to carry us home despite
not knowing the way
we relinquish ourself

there – see it…
the lamp in your window!

we fly so low
I can see the lovers so
plainly below
as evening enters by porchlight
…and I wave

Chagall 2020