There Are Rainbows in the Sky
A poem offered from the mountains after the shaking of the earth
Sarah Skinner, May 10, 2025
I drove under two rainbows on the way home.
“Egg‑sized hail,” the forecast said.
Yes, we just had an earthquake,
but—
have you seen how the ground is trembling in joy?
Because love is walking,
en masse,
with picket signs at protests.
Yes, there was a flood.
And we are walking in it.
We remain.
Listen, beloved neighbors.
Hear me, friends:
There are rainbows in the sky.
The Holy One is walking beside you—
wing to wing,
shoulder to shoulder.
So don’t fear the earthquake.
Not because it won’t topple houses,
but because it is us.
You are trembling.
Let it rise into motion.
The time is now.
Yes, there are prophecies.
Yes, there are dreams.
Here is what you need to know:
The wind roared around us—
and love roared louder.
The political signs were washed away.
We joined hands.
We held our neighbors.
You can drive a pickup.
Or a Prius.
We all belong here.
The rainbows bless all of us.
Love is rising.
Love is rising.
And if the earth trembles,
let it be in joy
that we have arrived.
This is where the land meets sky.
This is where the people held.
This is where we rebuild.
This is my land.
This is your land.
We belong to no man—
here in the mountains.
Let your fear sink into determination.
We are rebuilding something.
Something better.
Something with rainbows woven in.
It’s got old bones like mountains—good bones—
but it’s built on what we learned from the storm:
that we save even the honeybees here in these hills.
Fear not.
I am with you.
You are with me—
wing to wing,
singing in the dark,
singing the storm
into love.
This is just a poem—
but if your ears are open,
if your eyes are unclouded,
look up.
There are rainbows in the sky.
Fear not, because—
If you feel the tremble beneath your feet,
you are not breaking.
You are waking to see.
The old ground is cracking
because you are no longer willing
to build on silence.
Let our voices be the drumbeat
of the new foundation.
Let our screams in the storm be prophecy.
Let our songs be shelter.
Hear, Storm‑Born People—
you have sung the storm into love.
Keep singing.
Let the singing rise.
The Holy Ones are not far off.
They walk among you:
in muddy boots,
with casseroles and bolt cutters,
in the arms of mothers
carrying both grief and groceries.
The holy doesn’t need permission.
It only needs presence.
And if the earth groans—
let it be because love is pushing back.
You are not alone.
We are not alone.
We are arriving home.
