He was nondescript, innocuous. He named his dog Dog. His cat was called Cat. He grew daring with his parakeet and named it Wings. He wore beige from head to toe. Even his Sunday best, his “weddings and funerals suit” he called it, was beige. People wondered if his underwear was beige. He swore that it was, but with just enough of a smirk people couldn’t be certain. His house was painted beige as were his roof shingles. His car was beige inside and out. All his furniture was pine or a light oak. When he died, they found a note with instructions on the funeral, the burial, every detail, on beige paper, of course. And they found the beige suit bag in the closet with the rainbow colored suit that he was to be buried in.


One thousand cranes take flight
and there is a sudden silence
as the cat stares up, bidding them farewell.
We barely stop to notice,
despite the rainbow of colors
replacing the clouds, even the sun
seeming to pause in wonder.
Two thousand hands made this
happen, one person, unrelenting,
knowing anything less
would be nothing at all.
Each crane dips its head
in appreciation for its freedom,
no longer trapped
in a two-dimensional prison.


He says his favorite clouds
all wear size seven shoes.
He knows she believes
she once saw a paisley rainbow
and will never forget it.
She wears size seven shoes
and her tears can be torrential,
yet they can still nurture
the first flowers of spring.
He imagines her a butterfly
sitting on the back of his hand,
gossamer wings poised
at the thin edge of stillness.
He will not tell her this, afraid
she would think him a fool
or worse, flit wings and fly
in search of a rainbow,
just not a paisley one.
They both know that one
hides always within the clouds
that halo the mountain
whose streams feed her tears.
Those are the clouds
he knows, that always, always
run barefoot across the sky.


I have always wanted
to walk into a store
and buy a rainbow.
I have seen rainbows in stores
but never the one I want,
one marked down because
it is missing a color,
perhaps indigo. How
would we really know
if indigo were truly missing?

 Last week the clouds, the sun
and a post-rain mist conspired
to raise a rainbow in the eastern sky.
I saw it clearly, thought it did not
seem anchored to a distant horizon
as so many rainbows are.
I made an offer for it,
but when the clouds huddled
with the sun to consider it,
the rainbow slipped away.
I asked the clouds and sun
if they would look for it.
No, they said, rainbows
pretty much come
and go as they please.