Catching Rainbows in a Butterfly Net

I chased thousands in a field of spray, thought they'd slip
through the net like air, like fog, like the spray itself,
but it held them, shining fish, softer than fish roe,
slipperier than eels.   I swallowed them whole
in a whirl of cherry, strawberry, orange,
lemon, lime, blueberries and concord grapes
They wriggled and slid into the cage of my ribs
and swam there, lighting the cold cinder of heart
with color.  The sun when I caught it didn't burn
the fibers of net.  It tasted like fireballs, cinnamon
and cayenne and  roosted in the cinder of heart
like a banty taking to the trees at dusk.  Whoever told
you chickens don't fly never had banties!  Even
most of the white leghorns fluttered to the rafters
when the fox came in.  (Which wasn't the point
you were making, of course.)   Meanwhile, the sun
flapped its yellow wings, fluffed its white belly
and puffed out the cinder of heart into a great balloon
that thrummed in my chest glowing and shimmering
with rainbows, throbbing and singing: an electrical
tinnitus that seemed to be chanting: Oh Joy, Oh Love,
oh Glory.  Halleluiah.  Say what?  Hello?  Did I mention
the word dream?  None of it could be my fault.

Mary Taitt
For Kay Ryan, Rhonda Walsh, Lottie Spadie, Dawn McDuffie and Jim Doran
090106-1603-1d from a dream
brand new poem today