by Ethel Mortenson Davis
This is the right time
of the year
to be a climber of trees,

trusting only
the youngest
and strongest limbs
with your life,

your cheek resting
on the nook
of a shoulder—

the right time
of the year
for fireball colors.

This is the place
where one can look
back below
to see if mankind
has become a race
of Renaissance men.

Not yet,
the climber says,
not yet.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

5 responses to “Climber

  1. A poem with a bonus gift. 🙂

  2. Sadly no not yet . Great post.

  3. Wonderful Ethel. I was quite taken by surprise by the ending. Lovely x

  4. Alas, not Renaissance yet….
    Ethel, your poetry has a way of being both gentle and powerful at the same time. (And what a beautiful photo!)

  5. Betty’s comments really captures the essence of your writing, Ethel. You caress and stir and even shake the reader a little with your finely crafted poetry. One reads, observes, absorbs, is transported, and never quite the same. Thank you. XO ❤

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