Bubble

A bubble,
Delicate,
Ephemeral,
I float and dance,
Carried on the wind
Yet not her plaything –
Guided and suggested,
I glide.

I fear to stop,
For I am weary.
Rising again
Will be laborious.
But oh how I long to pause,
To rest a moment in the warmth of the sun,
To taste again of a gentle breeze.

I will stop –
Tomorrow,
Most certainly tomorrow.

Now I must press on.

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