By: Pat Doran

At the end of every rainbow
there is a pot of gold.
When I was a child
that was the story I was told.
A childs wide eyes
cannot hide surprise.
After every rain shower
I would search the skies.
Praying that one
might soon appear.
When it did,
I would run outside
before it disappeared.
I never succeeded
in my quest
but I tried hard
to pass the test.
Pots of gold
do not exist
but for a child
the search was bliss.