Learning Not To Touch Bubbles

When I was little
picking up my crayons
I'd first have a picture
behind my eyes,
try to take it out,
make it real on paper, always
get frustrated
that I couldn't match
outside image to imagination,
as if a chased rainbow,
if you get too close
bursts, a bubble
of bitter tasting soap,

but I've grown to see
there is far greater beauty
than I could find
in my mind,
that it's not "me"
to control tools,
bend materials
to my will,
but set them free,
go with the flow, watch
delight unfold wings as it will,
not fasten
a butterfly's brief brightness
safe forever on the still
small coldness of a pin
for it's life
is flying
and my understanding
touches no more than
a breath holds sky

so I'll learn
the grace of a falling leaf
no longer cling
to past Spring's hope
rest where
the wind thinks best -
to make you laugh in friendship
is enough:
I'll not ask for love.