Bubbles

Rainbows float across the breeze,

Small spheres of wonder.

It’s the last little bubble I love the most

Her arms waving, her laughter rising

As surely as the spheres she follows.

Spontaneously she reaches for the sticky magic

of these small rainbow spheres

Never doubting the magic that is hers

if she can only catch one.

But she never can, quite,

So she tries again and again

Again and again

Some leave their mark, wet and sticky on her hands,

And some drift free, above, take flight.

And I . . . love to make it happen

To cast my magic wand

To see her dance

To the music of bubbles.

©2006 Donna Jo Wallace.