• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 02

Capturing a Rainbow – a prose poem

It seems I've caught a rainbow, blues and greens and yellows
gone pale within my hand in the time it took me to pull it from the sky. The reds suffused together with their fellows on the spectrum to pour a brilliant pink into my palm, the largesse of it spilling over to my nails. The chill of my hand has lined up those blues and greens and yellows, pushed them into blocks, leaving their arc form, re-ordering themselves to the new reality of being captured. Not so the red, now bright pink—she has resisted the new form, and flows freely over my hand. She is no longer red but pink in her new reality. But where is the treasure? Isn't that promised to the one who captures the rainbow? Oh wait! That's if you capture a leprechaun, the creature who knows the rainbow's secret hiding place. As I look at my hand, I see perhaps it was folly to pull it down from the sky—my hand begins to disappear. It is the rogue pink that is working on me, working to make me disappear as I made the rainbow disappear from the sky. Perhaps I should rethink my strategy. Perhaps if I open my hand the rainbow will, birdlike, take to the sky and resume its place. I feel a lightness where my hand should be. I think I am forever changed. I hear the laughter of the red and a subtle whisper inviting me to join it.