Silver parabolas
gleaming in the sun—
back and forth
in slow hypnotic
rhythm.
Curtains of water
beaded with droplet
prisms casting
ghostly rainbows—
we’d plunge right through,
or dash at right angles
through misty tunnels
beneath the moving arch,
shrieking as drops fell,
missing us.
We’d sashay forward,
wiggle and watch
rows of liquid streamers
lift, leave, and bow
to the other side—
then dare the return—
the lifting, the advancing,
the curling closer
and closer still—until
we’d madly quickstep back.
We were ourselves
prisms, life
playing through us
like light, casting
improvisations
on a summer afternoon.
Pam Lewis
Pam Lewis’ work has appeared in various regional and national publications. Now retired, she enjoys the many opportunities for learning, and the natural beauty of Madison, WI.
Portage Magazine 