End of the Rainbow

I catch the doubled rainbow in my mystic cross palm

and

flinging prisms back at you -- entwined, the couplets arc and rhyme

lending honey-suckled hues to Time --

nectar blending.

I wait inside the curve of interstellar me,

interlaced fingertips

templed in prayer

pulsing inside soul cupped beats,

goblets of gold.

Sunday in the Park

It wasn't the refrigerator cold tupperware box of freshly sliced cucumbers or the napkins sailing like miniature paper kites in the breeze that made Sunday at the baseball field crisp and fresh; instead,it was the sheaves of fairy feathered lashes flashing laughter over blue and hazel, and green and brown -- eyes of God winking through the open skies of grandchildren -- mana from heaven.