Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Rainbows and windmills

Sometimes we leave with rainbows in our pockets,
and sometimes we travel without them,
knowing there are always rainbows about;

and yet a crumpled rainbow is its own gum wrapper,
as the saying goes, prized for its juicy-rejoicing-mad scent,
and one cannot always stop to replenish the supply;

price-per-pound, mothers in line at the check-stand,
kids in tow, everyone going somewhere,
everyone missing home, by whichever grand route;

did I say rainbows, when I meant windmills;
kids, when I meant goats; pockets, instead of boats;
that we pass beneath willows, their locks in the stream;

deep as anything; deep as your grandmother’s mixing bowl;
west by way of a smoking train, staking your claim,
sinking your well; it’s something like that, along with its smell;

fun, too; I thought I had mentioned that; or am I thinking
of grandpa’s hat, and the way it sat, and that he would,
somehow, die and be right back;

oh, grandpa, rainbows and wagon wheels,
have I really lived that long, that white walls and trailer tongues
should be all rusted, busted, and cracked;

apparently so; so apparent is that, that I forget now
whether rain-mills are windrows, or the train’s on the track;
how about that; one for you, one for me; sweet, in my lap.


Lorraine Renaud said...

Of course, you are the writer, how silly of me to forget, rain-mills and trains and I'm in your pocket

William Michaelian said...

And you are a welcome traveler, too.