poem by Tess

Bubbles

Everyone is a bubble,
Born, realised and popped.
Some float up high, hit a branch on a tree....POP.
Some fall down to the ground....POP.
Some fall faster than others but every bubble pops sooner or later.
When I see bubbles being blown
I think of newborn babies and
when they pop I think of the sad death of
Everyone close to me.

As the leaves turn and fall and as we turn for Yom Kippur, that's probably the best metaphor for our lives I can think of. Thanks, Tess.