Herban Poetry

Tiny Bubbles in a Cosmic Kiddie Pool

Blowing bubbles in the
backyard of a bungalow
How low I was to the ground
with a head hovering through clouds
Sometimes I'd read and go on magical adventures
other times, I'd venture from my safe zone,
and attempt to play sports.
But nothing brought the peace and beauty
of blowing bubbles just to catch them
and not let them pop.

They boggled my brain;
transparent yet iridescent.
A liquid? A solid? Or a gas?
I watched them, knowing
each touch, blow of the wind, or graze of grass
could be their last,
That beautiful creation, so fragile and helpless,
I wanted to save them.

Now I'm higher to the sky
with wax wings of a lesser kind.
Penning poems in a
picketed property
I still read and go on magical adventures,
but now I'm so tenured that I must be the guide.
And nothing brings the peace and beauty
of taking some ink and softly, gently,
blowing a breath of me into each piece
and hoping they don't pop.

But I know they will,
because with time I've learned.
Everything does.
Each paradoxical part,
perfectly flawed and uniquely the same,
pops. Just like the:
backyard bubbles,
bustling bungalows,
the penned properties,
and picketed prose.
The kid on the magical adventures
and the bigger kid writing them.
These beautiful creations, so fragile and helpless,
I love them, knowing
each touch, blow of the wind, or graze of grass
could be their last.
 And knowing, I can't save them.