Jan/Feb 2020 Poetry

It Is Whatever Myth

by Russell Rowland

Borrowed image

It Is Whatever Myth

It is whatever time
snow entices the mundane,
and earth's gentle contours
receive its advances—while
spurning more ardent offers.

It is whatever place
was rough: drifts make it plain.
Each landmark disappears
with a Cheshire Kitty smile.
Trails go nowhere awhile.

It is whatever mood
the scene is apt to leave
with you—a little boy
seven decades or more ago:
You Flexible Flier, you.

It is whatever memory.
Dad lay atop the sled,
you lay atop of Dad,
down your trinity sped—
Newington: Indian Hill.

It is whatever myth
memory may become.
You eluded the barbed wire,
leaped the thawing brook,
returned to a happy home.


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