(Revised from The Scheming Sky)

A silver plane is writing I…LOVE…YOU
Upon that paper called the sky,
And someone down below—it’s surely true—
Feels lightly winged and high.

This missile in my hand writes just the same
Upon this cloud called paper sheet,
Solidifying my ardent flame
So snow-bound you may feel love’s heat.

The plane flies off, its letters drift;
A so light thing—that soul-filled gift.
My letter, too, shall take up wings,
Until your hand the writ cloud clings.

Now separate lines of white blush pink
To feel quick love of the sun’s warm ink,
As though lit eyes of her down here
Tossed happ’ly back her pilot’s cheer.

But should you see, where far you stand,
A blurred torn paper sweep the land,
A black-ink rosiness will warm you through
When you spread out my cloud—I…LOVE…YOU!