A rainbow is hard to photograph,
Almost impossible to capture, to hold.
A trick of light, the play of an angle,
Gone before you know it was real.
Their beauty is radiant, like nothing else,
But you have to accept some darkness first—
The clouds, the downpour, the winds of change—
Before you can see, or appreciate, the color.
Light and storm have to combine,
For the arch, the spectrum, to show.
The droplets have to reflect, refract, disperse,
Sending the beam one way, before the other.
They follow the opposite schedule of the sun,
Shining in the west early, the east late.
Unpredictable, but constant, always there,
Just waiting for their chance to be.
Only under certain circumstances will one form,
When the timing is perfect, the conditions just right.
And even then, the view changes from eye to eye.
Where’s the beginning? What’s waiting, at the end?
One Word at a Time 