Mood is a Bouncing Ball

Mood is a Bouncing Ball

 

A silver sphere, unbound by weight,

it dances on the edge of fate—

a mood, a pulse, a fleeting rhyme,

it leaps from shadow into light.

 

On pavement hard, it springs to jest,

a laughter echoing across the chest,

but strike the grass, and soft it slows,

a sigh, a blush, a quiet glow.

 

It pirouettes when storms approach,

a tempest trapped in fragile sphere,

then dips to stillness, calm, unperturbed,

as skies dissolve to tender grey.

 

It defies rules, this wayward thing—

a hiccup, not a song, not a sting—

yet in its bounce, a pattern grows:

the ground it meets decides its pose.

 

You chase it, breathless, through the day,

it eludes your grasp, then stays,

a fleeting truce on polished floors,

until the next mishap explores.

 

O bouncing ball, both wild and true,

you mirror back the way we sway,

a testament to forces three—

the heart’s resilience, the world’s reply,

and gravity… always gravity.

 

So let it leap, let it fall, let it fly;

the ball, the mood, the reason why:

we’re elastic souls, you’ll come to see,

rebounding toward the weight of free.