by Ethel Mortenson Davis
When we are desperate and can’t recognize the world, we climb into words, grasp letters, covet paragraphs to find smallness. When we are desperate we go to this small garden to gather ourselves in the act of cleaning away dying plants — to repeat our worth — in places we recognize, like the wounded fox that crawls into the small culvert.
fourwindowspress 
Concur with every word of this beautiful poem, Ethel. You speak for so many of us. Thank you. N.
Lovely, Ethel. Thank you for sharing this vision and remembrance. 🌹