It doesn’t take much moisture to make a rainbow
in April, a promising mist to hold the grass
another day, bring flowers. Flawless arch of every color

reaching from the rough, uneven spine of a familiar ridge
fades into gray cumulus like a science fiction passageway
from space attached to the mountain, our nearest horizon.

Perfection of refracted light through raindrop prisms
incised into this imperfect earth like a surgical instrument,
uniting this weatherworn and fractured rock with grass

and trees like moss to heaven, or to some foreign place
beyond my comprehension that intimidates this moment
with a miracle, a blessing and pledge of possibility.

It doesn’t take much moisture to make a rainbow
in April for us to feel special—to refresh our faith
in the vows we made so many years ago.

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