by Ethel Mortenson Davis
It is a time
when the smell
of sweetgrass
hangs heavy
in the ear
of summer,
when light lingers long
in the night,
and we let go of
what is not right in the world,
when we drift
across the tall grasses
to where fireflies
are whispering
to each other.
In this small pocket
of summer,
the deer
have finally
let themselves
be seen.
fourwindowspress 
Wonderfully evocative.
Thank you Sister. Love Ethel
Yes. Not everything is as bleak as we sometimes fear
The earth’s graces are supreme. Ethel
Yes indeed.
There is hope in this poem, Ethel. Beautifully and eloquently written, as always.
There must be hope. Love Ethel
Love back to you, Ethel.
A lovely poem so descriptive of Nature.
Thank you for coming. Ethel