The Birth of Every Universe

When my nephew was very small
we used to blow bubbles together.

Together we sat on our porch
with laps of bowls of bubble soup
in hands magic bubble wands – his purple mine orange;

watching soft films of geometric presence
float upward towards nowhere inparticular,
and then he said something that stopped me.

He said, “look uncle Ken, our bubbles are so happy!”

I had been even
sitting in mindful mindlessness states of equity,
arm raising, breath, arm lowering.

But now I had causes to deal with.

I looked at his brown round face
lips pursed just so –
the exact proportion of air and hope and pushing –
the way a god might move you toward existence,
and you clinging,
just delicate moments between trust and freedom;

and there he was,
soft of skin, rainbow reflector,
containing every universe.

┬ękenroome

The Birth of Every Universe

kenroome

Concord, United States

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