He asked himself why he'd stopped
playing in the rain: is it on his age's
inappropriateness? was he afraid of a
lightning strike—for in his prime he
only feared the strike of father's hands
if he is caught sticking his hands in a
mud puddle when the rain comes to a
halt so he would scurry back home with
a real bath; or is he afraid of your hand
gestures striking him motionless when
you explained how rainbows were only a
derivative—therefore unreal, depending
and incapable of holding its own beauty—
and what a misfortune, for it is where you
mistook the very makings that constitute
our souls and the connections it spin,
the spider's web that bonds all life ahold;
and there is a concoction of hues and
saturation from its spaces you failed to see;
and that prismatic arc you've come to hate,
is the closest representation the mind
can comprehend—but I saw all of it and now I
do not fear going out on a September noon
without an umbrella, my endeared Pennylace
YOU ARE READING
Albeit flawed,
PoetryI was basking under the sun-the waves muffle the sound of my breathing; and I bury myself with cautionary confidence in the sand and with it the memory of your four faces. How can something lethal be life-restorative?
