by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Fresh snow
with the same fox trail
ahead of us
each morning.

The cold at times
becomes unmovable,
but we must
meet her at her throat;

we must reach down
inside ourselves
for strength,
we will be swallowed up

like the coyote
that morning
who stood his ground,

1 Comment

Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

One response to “Cold

  1. Beautiful, Ethel. Hope that you and Tom and all your family had a warm and wonderous Christmas. May blessings abounds for you and yours in the New Year and far beyond. XO ♥

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