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.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry

10 responses to “Sweetgrass

  1. eremophila

    Wonderfully evocative.

  2. Yes. Not everything is as bleak as we sometimes fear

  3. There is hope in this poem, Ethel. Beautifully and eloquently written, as always.

  4. A lovely poem so descriptive of Nature.

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