When coming ‘cross a rainbow, matters not if rich or poor

You feel like you’re the only one to see its’ beauty pure.

A vantage point unique to you, grey scumbled clouds behind

The poetry of light plays on the screen that is our mind.

Searching skies for sunbeams, which birthed the brilliant bow,

Eyes slide down prismatic bands to find its’ source below

No matter if we see the arc complete or just a part

It’s nature’s basic building blocks, primary colored art.

And even in the brightest sun, ends trail off in the mist

With thoughts of wealth and pots of gold, a distant memory wished.

Beyond the ends of rainbows, there is no end at all

It’s just the place all wishes go when rainbows start to fall.

By James Geehring