Brother, it wasn't a bubble we lived in,
but something fragile made of sugar.

An egg we could look inside
but not get out of. Four and seven, we

didn't know how not to break the stuff
we shouldn't be. Yet,

it wasn't all knees against gravel.
There was a whoosh in the hay field.

The birthing of calves in the night
we were awakened for. Summer

storms that blew all around
but never blew us away. No.

It wasn't a bubble. We just floated
sometimes between bursts.