The Artist

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The deaf-mute
stands in darkness
unable to communicate
himself to us.

Wait.

He touches me…

and in the blackness
his touch
pierces
to the very bones within me,
deeper than the deep kidneys,
quenching
my unquenchable
thirst,

bringing dewdrops
to my raging
fire.

1 Comment

Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

One response to “The Artist

  1. Full of your magic, Ethel.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s