R. A. Allen

Lesser Rainbows

Later, when he was losing the light,
all of his rainbows went grayscale,
a grease streak against a wooly sky.
Driving, he would spot them in breaks
between the stands of charred pines,
evolving at indistinct points
on dissolving horizons.

In every season it was this way.
From porch swing or skylight,
perspective no longer mattered.
These rainbows were what he had now.

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