The little girl virtuous and naive sits in the emerald blades on the hill.
She dreams of remote landscapes while gazing up at the
perfect sapphire skies, the clouds make figures that
dance just below the heavens, she imagines a
milk shake, a bird, or maybe a snowman.
She wafts bubbles into the afternoon
globes of plum, indigo, gold, olive-
vibrant, mystifying. Drift away,
whisk through the wind and
come back down to burst.
She craves to soar away.
She constructs another
set of bubbles
and sees one
that is large
into the bubble
to float away into
eternity, up, and up,
circle after circle, toiled in
the wind the bubble brought her
too high-it bursts. She descended carelessly
back to the hill to hear her mother calling from a distance,
she hurries back if she wants to journey on the bubble again tomorrow.