Chasing Hurricanes

I would call you a rainbow but I
don’t mean to say that you’re beautiful or
out-of-reach or as rare a presence in my
life as a sun shower. Or that I can’t compel you
to appear because some outside force
decides how you come and go,
seemingly for a second. In the window of
my life you should be inconsequential: a
well-appreciated, fleeting
joy but I suppose the ephemerality of
it all has me finding you strangely wonderful.
I cannot chase you past the sun,
I cannot capture you beyond a
photo that convinces me in
times of uncertainty that you once existed.
The summer rain that spills in sun
seems to illustrate the coexistence of
futility and possibility.
I remain afraid
that I am chasing hurricanes
without noticing that the wind at
my back is taking me in circles.
You lace my eyelids when I
stare at the sun, you
soothe the sky’s wounds after it is
cracked open, you are meant
to lead to some greater promise or reward but
I know better.
I would call you a rainbow but your
sentience prevents me from
chalking you up to a perfect storm.
You exist with purpose.