by Ethel Mortenson Davis

in the bright morning,
whose leaves stay alive
under the dead layer
all winter,
send up flowers
before all others.
It is here where
the pale pink and lavender
are the door opening
to where my god lives:
Her angels are the birds
opening their wings.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry

7 responses to “Door

  1. very beautiful poem, Ethel.

  2. Ethel, I always love your poetry so much. Your style of writing is beautiful, understated, profound, eloquent, delicate – and it always moves me. You speak for Earth, for “Gaia”, and for all of our deep connections to the natural world around us.
    (By the way, I have a hepatica plant as you describe. One of my great uncles brought this particular species from Norway a hundred years ago and propagated them. I too love the evergreen leaves that survive the “dead layer all winter”, and those first deep blue flowers that suddenly appear in early March. Now I’ll think of you and this poem every time I tend to it.)

  3. That is such a lovely response, Betty. We always enjoy your writing. Hope your spirit and health will remain steadfast. I love how your great uncle transported that species. Love Ethel

  4. “Her angels are the birds
    opening their wings.”

    And your poems also?

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