Suds

Dec 28 2011

I have not blown bubbles in years.

Perfect spheres

that disappear

into insubstantial air,

a little pop

of wetness.

Dish soap, and breath,

blowing through my plastic wand.

Small ones sail off

at the mercy of wind.

Big ones wobble

don’t last long.

Surface tension, and iridescence

squeaky with light;

a delightful froth

if whimsy

and giddiness.

I have been doing dishes for years,

yet nearly forgot.