Lightning Rainbow

The bolt splits the rainbow.
It was a pleasant myth that the semicircle spectrum
said the world wouldn't be drowned again.
The incident of refractive dispersion of mist
doesn't mean the swarm of electrons fringing the cloud top
will keep to their banishment, lost, naked, lonely.
Needing a hole to fill, these charges drill one through the sky,
cracking through the beautiful emblem of all colors.
The stroke nullifies the inferred promise of a flood-free planet.
 

You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.
You don't need the Weathermen to know which way the wind.
You don't need a Weatherperson to know which way.
You don't need the Weatherpeople to know which.
You don't need a weather underground organization to know.
You don't need the Weather Underground Organization.
You don't need a Weather collective.
You don't need the weather.
You don't need.
You don't.
You.

You don't need a Weatherman to know which way the wind blows.
You know which is the way.
Fold your fingers in.
Make a fist.
Use it to make blows against the empire.
Punch right through the idle breezes,
like the lightning parts the rainbow.
The Weatherpeople didn't die, just went underground.
The politics was all talked out decades ago.
That consensus pervades all the Rainbow people in common.
The lightning bolt distinguishes the military contingent.
Hard hitting and swift.
Shocking as a bolt from the blue.

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Whither?

rev 980309