Bubbles

My son once worried for the bubbles burst

By blades of grass, or carried past the door—

Avert his gaze, as if it were the worst

Of fates, that fate could ever have in store.

He used to need the cuddles of a bear

At night, the gentle little thing he was;

But now, he’ll face the ceiling and just stare

All night— I fear that worry’s all he does.

Although he’ll never speak a word to me,

I know that he’s afraid of every first;

Although his growth has been a sight to see,

I hate to have to watch his bubble burst.

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