The Artist

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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


He touches me…

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

bringing dewdrops
to my raging

1 Comment

Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

One response to “The Artist

  1. Full of your magic, Ethel.

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