It’s a celebration!
Balloons drift in the sky
with the quiet murmur
of a doctors wait room.  
Bent necks and fixed staring
eyes follow them faithfully.
It’s a celebration!
The skies completely cluttered.
It’s a celebration!

The over-kept yellow grass
itches my nose with change;
A new beginning? An end?
Or just an idea that'll deflate?
Without the skies distraction
We're free to tend our gardens,
To celebrate worldly wins,
and love our languishing mother.
"Here's to you Mother! ":

The last words the sky did mutter.