the crystals
we would think;
they don't accrete slow
until they're sharp, hard,
and beautiful.
Rather, they
are bubbles—
mysterious dirigibles
borne by the wind
and birthed from breaths
which we blow
though magic wands,
resplendent
in the sun and streaked
with magic colors—
but none of them
built to withstand
the mildest altitudes
or suffer the slightest
external pressure—
and which bequeath
at their deaths quick
felicitous pops
built to make a child laugh
and then flee
from its memory.
