Once per moment, the wind tickles the trees
into their seesaw sway—and I can’t help but
lick my fingers clean of it. 
What a day,
when the satin palms of the breeze giggle and tousle
your hair, when they plane against the 
bosom of your cheek. 
You think night could do this?
Host this debut of moments, bowtied together
with such rhythmic certainty? I don’t think so.

Today, I lasso rainbows with this rope I’ve
fashioned from grass blades and bee’s honey—
donated, of course, by the bees.
Standing, feet apart
(at a lake which will remain 
my effervescent secret), 
I raise my right arm,
spinning the rotors of my rope
like a helicopter. Or a spinny chair.
I throw, and pull the rainbows down to me
like that cheesy lasso dance,
licking the sugar from their frilly bodies
once they fill my relatively little hands
(yes, rainbows are both sugary and frilly).
I let them flutter skyward after that,
and walk on to find more.

I used to chase rainbows, you know—
don’t laugh! I’ve figured it out now, that
there’s more to the trees than that,
more to the sky. 
What’s in the butterfly,
if it ordains your palm to open so it might
rest its dainty lover legs,
or in the figeater,
when it glides eyeless through
rainbow domain
and enjoys it with a boozy buzz.
It’s mine in the same way that
it’s yours, in the same way that
I feel the Sun bake my pale face—
since the sound of the morning-birds’ chirps
caused me to forget my sunscreen.