Jennifer Givhan
Miscarriag
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In a field where a hot air balloon waits tethered,
children balancing umbrellas and wearing party hats
plant birthday bouquets; where they grow
the swollen bulbs push open the soil
smelling of clay and fingerpaint. Even the sky
celebrates in reverse, hanging like pigtails from a jungle gym.
Not many daffodils or crickets are lucky enough to become fossils,
but here every joule of heat remains inside the balloon.
One might be tempted to drift away now
rather than later.
