The Gatherer

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

He is not just a gatherer
of ripened berries and roots,
plants of every kind,
but he is a gatherer of days
and lights and secret places
where treasures abound.

He’s not just a gatherer
of summer strawberries,
blueberries, and blackcaps,
the northern red cranberries,
but a gatherer of open spaces,
a quiet still hill,
and a meeting at last
of his wild woman.

She is there in the blanket
of golden chanterelles
among the deep pockets
of the forest
where he finally ravishes her
with kisses to her mouth
and blowing hair.

4 Comments

Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry

4 responses to “The Gatherer

  1. Reblogged this on Ben Naga and commented:
    I felt I just had to share this rather special poem more widely. Please enjoy , appreciate and feel the wonder due.

  2. I feel very special. Thank you very much. Ethel

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