Magritte whispers, “Those are not umbrellas.”

He is right, of course.

Those are souls that have been liberated

from the confines of hallways and corners.

 

No longer tethered to a human hand,

up high they can see

much farther than they did before.

 

Their bright colors and patterns continue to

shelter those below and brighten the mood

of passers-by.

 

When the breeze blows, 

you can almost hear them, 

planning their final escape. 

 

The wires break, 

the souls take flight,

disappearing into celestial heights.