National Poetry Writing Month 2017 Poem #9
Carefree, she runs through the damp grass,
Giggling as she reaches out her fingers.
The shining, wet spheres pop on contact.
She turns to me and asks for some more.
I pull the wand from the soapy solution
And let the wind form perfect bubbles.
They reflect light into rainbow shimmers.
She is a thing of beauty as she delights
In the temporary parade of colorful suds.