This bubble
small as a bead
descends slow,
double now
in my kitchen window.

How did you find me
so far
from washing-up?
The iridescent soup
you issued from
long gone,
the life of a bubble
o-shaped,
an open end.

I’ll pack
tomorrow’s lunch
and turn
to let you descend indefinitely.
Some phenomena
hold notice longer
than form,
some just float away.