We speak so much of rainbows,
all the legends, all the lore
that such spectra can ensure.
The colored arch that shows

us to a pot of gold,
or presumes a heavenly promise,
is refracted light, thrown amiss
by water in air, or the cold

glass of prisms, frequencies
split apart. I say, pull back
this beam, reverse the track
of photons, exigencies

of re-assembly, make whole
this broad band of light,
all hues blended into one white
noise for the eye, wash for the soul,

the true color of sky,
the snow of the storm,
the first color we see when we’re born,
the last color we see when we die.


[First published in Poetry Magazine.com, April 2001; also won Honorable Mention at the College of New Jersey Spring Writers Conference, April 2001.]

10/08/2001

Posted on 10/08/2001
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