by Ethel Mortenson Davis


I was never invited
to the table,
but had to sit outside.

I reached
for another–
whose lap
I crawled on,
whose branches
of trees
out to me
with their arms.


Old Mother,
who heals
with the rushing
waters of spring,
the quiet white
of deep winter snows,
with the smell of leaves
breaking down
in the fall
and the bright moonlight
on warm summer nights,
Old Mother reached out to me.


I was never invited
to the table,
but had to sit outside,

and there
I found another
gathered animal spirits
beside me

on another path
in another world.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

3 responses to “Table

  1. This moved me deeply Ethel.

    A beautiful poem which I will return to from time to time to restore myself to equanimity.

    I hope you are both well


  2. Anna Mark

    This poem seems to have a whole other story wrapped about it. It has my curiosity and interest and empathy, too.

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