Rural Myth
After I skate off the last edge, bump into rough treatment,
fall off the cliff, the steady thump of boots-to-trail awakens
that spark, as I push up through bedrock, a lakebed
awaiting, through rocks, some shale, to start my frantic
swim to the surface where air stimulates: I feel the cold
water once life returns, but what did I learn buried so far,
sniffing the salt caves, alone at my age, noticeably nude
as I beat hypothermia to the leaf-barren trees, not yet
budding in the brisk new spring? Is there a precocious four
leaf clover rising at Onanda, the pine tree girl’s camp
turned into pristine, simple, non-electrified cabin resort? Is it
quick to be lost, cherished then missed by the heart of an
11-year-old boy, who, not having pets, wants to preserve it,
the fruition of a joke come true? “I see a four-leaf clover,”
he says, then reaches down and finds one to pick at once.
He’s not afraid to hand it to me, but, embarrassed by nudity,
I hand it back, borrow a towel, scamper to shelter, try to
find a phone, to remember the number of someone I knew
thirty years ago who might give up their sail, fish, swim,
trilobite hunt to take a funny trip to a clothing store, for starters.
WOW! This poignant, raw, tender telling… this poem will be staying with me for a very long time!
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It’s an honor to be here
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