by Ethel Mortenson Davis

All my ancestors
live inside of me.

One Grandfather cut down
the biggest tree in the county.

My Mother said,
“Why didn’t he leave
the biggest tree
to grow even bigger?”

Another Grandfather
referred to his trees
as “He and She.”

“Save those orange seeds;
they will grow into trees.”

One Grandmother said,
“What will they serve
for the wedding feast?

My room is filled
to the rafters
with their voices.

Every once in awhile
some ancestor
will sneak up behind me
and rudely nudge me
in the back

when I’m least
expecting it.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

3 responses to “Ancestors

  1. Lovely writing, and isn’t it good to have such moments every now and then?


    All of these voices.
    Raised down through the centuries
    Now it is my turn

  3. Listen to the voices they speak the truth!

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