Something Like a Rainbow
The storms that make it into poems most often
leave something like disaster in their wake:
the wine-glass elms in pieces on the lawn,
the chimney cracked, the basement a shallow lake.
This morning’s storm was nothing much by contrast—
a shiver of wind, no more than a minute’s rain.
Time enough to close the windows fast
in time to have to yank them wide again.
And yet it was as though the world had slept,
or I had, waking now to find out how
a storm will sometimes leave a golden frame
in which there’s room for something like a rainbow
to fan its shifting colors into flame—
a promise rashly made and richly kept