Alan: A vision of a place known so intimately that even now I can see every fold in the skyline, every tree on the shore. But there was only one rainbow like this.
I have never felt closer to the Perfection of Wisdom
than when I saw, not that perfect double rainbow
perfectly framing the long hill rising above the glass-blue lake,
perfectly reflected in the lake, so that the whole
formed a perfect twinned circle of breathlessly inverted color and light,
but in the memory or whatever it was that came to me just now,
seeing it again, as clean and still,
though I am hundreds of miles from any rainbow
and a million years from that particular hill and lake.
Nancy: April's a month of firsts, of birdsongs and strawberries, of mornings at dawn in the mist, of the first fish.
Out Of Memory, A Dove
And so, April,
with her showers
more sharp than sweet
and a dove, calling
becomes a pond,
sunrise, fish rising
my father cleans a fish
I wipe the knife on the grass
And the dove calling
drifts into woodsmoke
a bright moment as twigs flare
my father oils the pan
and the doves are calling
around the pond, at
sunrise, April, in the rain
And so too this morning,
nearby in the rain
a dove is calling.