a poem about rainbows
I am finding it a difficult task to quantify the beauty of the rainbows I have experienced in order to rank them.
What instead I imagine is the light coming through her bedroom window, refracted, the spectrum falling across her face: a rainbow. How, with the Sun behind me, and rain in front, being a cloud, I collapse into her bed, breaking open white sunlight in my chest to reveal everything: broken into red, then orange, then yellow, then green, then blue, indigo, violet, spilling out, like flooding, radiant, crushing me open, rolling around with her in bed, a sprawling mess of light. The danger lingers, of getting lost entirely to become but a droplet of water or simply a mass of energy, if we forget to remember these fleshy containers, to keep that foot firmly rooted to the ground. I have tied an anchor to my ankle. It is heavier than all the world, and still I find myself drifting.
Here, we dissolve into bands of color. I reach my hand in your direction, blinded by this energy. I feel you, but only through some psychic sense.
Some refraction of the spirit; some rainbow.