As a child I used to see them more often than nowadays —floating free of some child's hand, rapid speck of disappearing red against the blue, yellow caught in the trees' gnarled tresses. I'd lost my own share long ago, though the string might have been tied around my wrist. The ones we took home just sadly bumped against the ceiling for a day or two, before sinking to the floor. What for? But I remember watching as such orbs of brief-lasting joy made a break for the open air. A slip, an accident, and we open-mouthed on the ground.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.