by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I think of one as a rose,
feminine yet voluptuous,
a powerful scent,
delicate like no other,
the first flower you go to
in the garden —
the oldest as a lily,
singular and strong,
standing apart from all the rest,
an example to all her sisters —
and then the white daisy,
clean and fresh
and wholly authentic—
one to have in your corner.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
It is the end
of Door Peninsula,
the Newport Beach forest,
less dense now
from the gale winds
of last September
that toppled dead trees,
crisscrossing their trunks
ahead on our path
amidst living, smaller trees.
There are no words
to describe the large
old pines and cedars,
the largest trees
I have ever seen in Wisconsin —
not the picked over
forest trees
of two and three cuttings
that mostly remain here.
So tall these trees
along Lake Michigan,
dripping morning fog
on top of our heads and faces
from their skyscraper canopy.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The lips of the rain,
soft at first,
become
cold and stiff
from last night’s
freezing temperatures.
Out on the lake
The black-winged Pelicans
fish in huddles.
They are restored
to their ancient places,
the Great Lakes.
If only we could restore
the people to their rightful places,
bringing young and old back
to their ancient lands.
Instead millions are pushed out
from wars and famines
into a great movement
like schools of fish,
swarming,
moving like a great wheel
across the face of the deep.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Today we saw
black swans flying
close to the shore,
looking for open water.
We too look for open water
in our lives,
places that will
nourish and sustain us,
propel us through rocks and ice
that entangle us,
grab at our limbs
and minds, and bury us.
We yearn
for the boundless waters
of this vast lake
as glistening
black swans
yearn for spring’s
warming light.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
On earth
there are no elements
here of humankind
that work in harmony,
but in the whiteness
of snow there are.
The whiteness is like
no other white.
The snowshoe rabbit
this morning looked
brown against it.
White is holy.
It fights back
the grayness
that is human
and wins —
for a few moments.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
photographs by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
Photographs by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
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