Catching Rainbows
The suncatcher swings in the window,
splashing morning into the hall.
It flings fragments of rainbows
across the wall and up the stairs.
Here's one sliding across the doorknob,
orange to green patina,
and three—no four—on the closet door:
red to yellow droplets from Oz.
They're swaying, waiting, like eggs
of Easter, to be found.
Mimi and I, in the uncut sun
are drowsing. Her fuzzy tail
is draped over a step, her paws
gently knead a patch of warmth.
She lost her sister a month ago,
two black cats with the same white streak.
Now one. She sits beside me more
these days. I stroke her with one hand;
the other captures two split sunbeams,
pinkish to purple spectral twins.
They lie lightly on my palm,
slip to my knuckles when I grasp,
fade with a passing cloud.
