EMILY'S RAINBOW
Holding her tiny hand
I moved it to the very spot
where yellow, green, and lavender
shone in morning light
through my prism'd windowpane.
She smiled, for never, ever
in her two-yeared world
had she ever, ever
held a rainbow in her hand,
dancing lightly on her palm.
A wonder, made of colors,
so...she laughed...
her hand dropping from the spot,
becoming simply flesh again,
the blues and reds all gone.
Bereft, she looked up to my face,
eyes saying, "Act...make it good!"
and so I did, guiding her
where the light shimmered high,
holding fast her arm.
Delight renewed, tiny fingers curled,
for she would hold it tight,
not letting it escape again from her,
possessing it,
drawing it downward to her size.
Again...and yet again she grasped,
eyes clouding now with tears...
how COULD a thing so beautiful,
so colored on her palm,
NOT be willed to move?
Thus, she saw first in her life
that rainbows are a thing
ungraspable...
a concept, new and puzzling,
unwelcome to her heart.
And though the colors lingered there
upon the book-lined shelf,
she turned away
and looked no more
at things too new, too hard.
But I, now white with years,
have learned the rainbow's ways
and every chance I get
put forth my palm
to let one dance.
And, so, it takes some living
for us to come to terms
with things upon our palms,
shining brightly,
that are not ours to hold.
Jo Anzalone 7-23-2004
