No one makes it anymore. We took
a bowl of new snow white as a lamb
inside to the kitchen and we made snowcream.
My mother poured a shiny wedge-pierced can
of Milnot into it. The white turned tan;
then sugar and vanilla; mix and taste
the gift from winter sky.
It was the breath of outdoors, of the swirl
and settling of the snow. We sat and ate
in the house my parents kept too hot, the scent
of orchids in our noses and the sweet
and tingle of cold upon our tongues:
rare treat — winter extracted from the clouds
that lay their quiet over our back yard.
It wasn't long until Mother said
we had to stop: nuclear fallout in the snow.
It wasn't safe to eat it anymore.
"Blame Khrushchev," was her quip, and we were quiet.
The flame of the atomic bomb had come
to melt away one more assurance we
were safe and would live till we were old.
|Arts & Crafts Menu Border - Ca. 1910
David W. Landrum teaches Literature and Creative Writing at a small college in Michigan. His poems have appeared in The
Barefoot Muse, Shit Creek Review, Evansville Review and many other journals. He is editor of the on-line journal Lucid