Bubbles

I used to enjoy blowing bubbles.

I could sit for hours at a time

scanning rainbow-crystal-ball worlds

awhirl in a tear-thin soap brine.

 

Now spinning a dream, now a chance&endash;

my creations would drift on a laugh,

Or catch on a breath of a cause,

Or sighing sink through their birth-path.

 

But I somehow forgot to count bubbles,

And the mixture ran out yesterday.

Sunset glittered gold on the last,

And winked, and then flickered away.

© John McNeil 1998. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem is used in public performance. He may be contacted at: soul.communication@outlook.com