On the morning of my sister’s wedding, my brother, mother and I watched a fleet of hot-air balloons ascend over Napa Valley. I remember thinking, “If only I had a camera.” This will have to do. 

From the half-light inside the dell,
And Napa’s early morning chill, 
Dirigibles with wicker rims, 
O’ershadowed by quilted Harlequin, 
Enter the thick, obscuring mist 
    As fumarolic pillows 
    Flecked with amethyst. 
Then like celestial orbs off course 
From their accustomed universe, 
Above the fogbank they protrude — 
Darkened by the altitude. 
Still the expanding helium, 
Uplifts them to the upper wind, 
Where higher yet they ascend … 
    Floating, 
        Floating, 
 
Till on the ground a child’s thumb, 
Can full eclipse all but the sun.