AFTERMATH

There must be a rainbow.

Clouds still threaten in the fringes
and pavement steams
in the aftermath of a gully-washer.

Remember the sunlight spires
radiating a ring of daggers
like a celestial dome in the sky?

Remember the certainty
that to shinny up a shimmering beam
would lead to heaven?

Prism rain-beads scatter in the rinsed aura,
bumbershoots fold like a flock of tropical wings,
eyes blink back blindness and scan the horizon
for watercolor paint strokes.

Then it appears--
a splendid band of hues contouring the skyline,
a timeless arch tilting heads,
pocketing childhood,

and promising penance
for Noah's ancient flood.