Hope sounds like meadow birds
singing in the darkness before
the rising of the sun,
riffs entwined and floating
like the bubbles Grandma made
when she dipped her metal wand
and spun in a circle, her arms
outstretched, a trail of iridescent spheres
arcing behind her hand, riding
the spring breeze in the garden
as I chased and batted and giggled
until my hands grew soap-slippery
and my eyes glimpsed one last
bubble borne upon a gentle breath
above the dogwood, rising
free, a fragile and glorious
balance of tensions and pressures
cut loose from the earth,
beyond my fingers’ fatal touch.

David M. Frye
April 11, 2009
Denton, Neb.