Newport Beach

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

It is the end
of Door Peninsula,
the Newport  Beach  forest,
less dense now
from the gale winds
of last September
that toppled dead trees,
crisscrossing their trunks
ahead on our path
amidst living, smaller trees.
There are no words
to describe the large
old pines and cedars,
the largest trees
I have ever seen in Wisconsin —
not the picked over
forest trees
of two and three cuttings
that mostly remain here.
So tall these trees
along Lake Michigan,
dripping morning fog
on top of our heads and faces
from their skyscraper canopy.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

5 responses to “Newport Beach

  1. Ina

    Such a beautiful place and beautiful poem.

  2. Ethel, I just want to echo what Ina said. “Beautiful place and beautiful poem.”
    Also it brings to mind a photo of my grandfather taken 100 years ago. He’s in his early 20’s, standing between two huge work-horses in front of such trees along Lake Michigan in Wisconsin. Unfortunately the trees were being logged. I wonder how close you are to where this old photo was taken. (He and my grandmother were newlyweds, living in Washburn.)

  3. I should like to have been there, attracted by the magic of your words.

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