When dreams have shattered or illusions have been broken,
we say the bubble has popped.
But watch one do it in slow motion:
first it bends to accept the pinpoint thrust,
then unpeels from that spot like an opening eyelid.
A herd of droplets gallop away along the retreating edge
like a wave cresting in reverse.
The beauty of a bubble is not
its symmetrical balance of complementary and opposing forces.
It's this inevitable moment.
When a bubble bursts I don't see abandoned hope.
I see a prisoner set free at last; a captive breath
released into the waiting arms of the open air.
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