Ten months

Frost and his friends were up in the sky
playing and diving and learning to fly.
They hopscotched on clouds and swung from the stars,
kicking a ball that was most likely Mars.
What cherubs they were in curls and in cheeks.
they danced in the shine of heaven's high peaks.
They were promises and love and once boys and girls,
and now from their tower they watch over the world.
The world in its splendor, the world in its shame.
To both of these worlds they give their kind game.
The curiosity of youth and the discovery of time,
have passed through their hands out to the sublime.
They know things we don't. They cry tears of peace
which fall to the earth and feed every leaf,
every flower, every tree, everything made.
Every parent who broke, every baby that stayed.
Today and far more, I want to give back a gift.
One that gives freely and goes with the shift
of the wind on an easy fall day.
A day that reminds me that each sunray
Finds one person to warm, one person to bathe
in the spirit of so much of what life is made.
And so to the sun and the sky I do send
A balloon to the child who once held my hand.
It's the closest I can get to him, my postcard to the sky.
On it I have written to the baby who died.
Frost and his friends were up in the sky
cheering and grabbing at all of the balloons flying by.
"Frost, this golden one must be yours, look here it comes!"
He reached out and grabbed it, reading "Love Mom".

This is the only thing I could do today. I hope that you caught it.
Night, night Frost
Mama loves you.