by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Let me tell you
that the old gods
will not help us.
When we pray
by the wayside
they will not
listen to our tears.
For they are deaf,
stone deaf
like the ancient boulders
we walked between
this morning—
cold and unconcerned—
among the sweetness
of blooming honeysuckle.
fourwindowspress 
{{ Ethel and Tom }}
Ina! Love Ethel
That’s very nicely done Ethel.
Ethel, this is another gem! You have the gift of saying a thousand words in only a few. (Hope that makes sense!)
Or perhaps they are already doing everything they can?
Beautiful poem!