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Wally Swist

Double Rainbow

Walking the meadow track after

a day of rain, beside the dripping

trailside of autumn maples and oaks,

we enter into the mist descending

and a shower of tamarack needles

that turns golden in the twilight.

Only our angels know why we stop

to look behind us into the sky

to see the spread of the initial

prismed arc broadening its hues:

each band distinguished in concentric

patterns, when a second spectrum

appears curving above it—

one reflecting the other

across the horizon like flame.

We stand beneath it to watch

the colors blaze, making me aware that

we are reawakened by the wealth

of the continuum, that what we are now

is what we always have been, that

we were not meant to be too happy,

but we have grown into one another,

walking as far as the hip deep swale,

almost hovering there a moment.

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