David Dixon is a physician, poet, and musician who lives and practices in the foothills of North Carolina. His poetry has appeared in Rock & Sling, The Northern Virginia Review, Connecticut River Review, FlyingSouth, Sand Hills Literary Review, and elsewhere. His first book of poetry The Scattering of Saints is forthcoming.
Rainbow
Each morning my father draws back the curtains,
opens the blinds
and begins to fill the house with his own bent light
like the slow twirling suncatchers
hanging from the windowsill.
He sits all day inside the swirling spectrum
on the walls, ceiling,
carpet and bedspread he bought
for Mom
just before she died.
He is becoming a rainbow. So reminded.
So at peace. At home refracted
and scattered; a matter of perspective
forever opposite her sun.
Once a rainbow floated in the air
in the middle of the room – magical,
and we laughed to realize
it was sprinkling down on dust
from the ceiling fan
like crystal confetti.
“Do you know there are twelve
types of rainbows,” he said one day.
“Just like the apostles,” we laughed,
with just one place to go
and past ready to be there.
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