Myth

Myth

Snow falls. A forgotten willow

            stripped to storm sky gray

            elbowed by alders

shelters a lynx in a twining foot hollow. 

            Groomed, rested

            the cat moves on

leaving tawny hair 

            caught

            on a broken bough.

Sunrise. Spring tracks melt

            like wax

            like history erased

eliminating the evidence

            of how we change 

            each other

but not really. This is a myth.

            Every story leaves a mark      

            no authority can rub out. 

Some say spring willows flower 

            as rescued kittens 

            or tired hare tufts, persistent 

tales of choice and change. Like lynx

            willow moves 

            sinuously.

From gray limbs 

            it again stretches 

            green-footed 

into spring

            toes extended 

            with feline blooms.