Some soul’s dearest wish,

embodied as a birthday balloon,

released heavenward

like a prayer, appears

in late winter’s

grizzled grass

as I take my daily walk.

Who knows how the balloon

met its end—torn in treetops

or barbed wire, perhaps,

or clawed, pawed, picked at.

Now the dusty little rag

lies among beer cans, confetti,

New Year’s fireworks debris.

Less than a corpse,

this reddish flap of plastic

resembles a strip of skin,

the entrails of some animal,

the original lip and twisted neck

like a belly button, a nipple

turned inside out, the balloon

not else recognizable.

Most likely, its other bits

sit in the guts of a bird

that rots, too, in the dirt.