by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I have waited for the prodigal son to arrive,
looking across the line of hills each day,
hoping to see his cherub-like face again—
but they say he is still in a distant land,
throwing away his inheritance,
living a debauched life.
For he has no real needs, they say.
Not like the Russians
Pasternak, Ginsburg, Yevtushenko,
men of needs and wants
who cherish their inheritance
and are called sons.
I am waiting for you to come back to life again,
waiting to take the fattened young bull
out of his pen to celebrate your return.
3 responses to “Letter to an American Poet”
Let us dream a better future into life
That life that lies inert unenvisioned
Let us breathe it into manifestation
In words and thus in time into flesh
Love it. Love Ethel
Ethel, this touched me deeply.