To Pat Fennell,
a fountain of information on hummingbirds
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
A thousand beats
per belly,
eating drops of nectar
to get you through
the great Sonoran Desert,
eating tiny flies
to get you
to Central America
or even
South America,
flying
the Gulf of Mexico
in a long day.
All I want to hear
before I die
are wings of hummingbirds.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Continental Divide, New Mexico is located on a major migration route for hummingbirds. Ethel only keeps three feeders at our house because of the amount of work necessary. This a photo of one bird, but right now we have swarms of them. Wings whir; they dart and buzz; they fly off to nearby trees; they sit on our fence; then they return to the feeders. They often look like a moving cloud. Each feeder, if they are to be kept filled, requires five trips to where they are out of the house a day. We often have up to six species at the feeders, often quarreling, at once.
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I remember you best
at blackberry time:
The best gatherer
of our time
who could out-pick
the Champion Blackberry King
with his shining buckets
and mounds upon
mounds
of the gems
shining
like your shining
eyes were,
dark, almost black.
I remember you best
when I go
into the woods
to gather berries,
reaching out
for the shining black
eyes
and seeing your brown,
strong hands again,
coming home
to show us
your treasures.
How good it felt
this blackberry time.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I remember
when our daughters
became “a certain age”
and left us—
not just in a physical way,
but from our hearts as well.
I was sure this was what
raising children was about—
children leave you at a certain age,
never to return.
But they did return and
made that full circle
back to us, but
with “certain stipulations.”
Our son left,
came back,
then left again,
angry.
We thought he would
never return,
but he did again
at his death:
Came back full circle
to say, I need you both.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Had I not gone the extra mile
this morning,
I would have missed
the unexpected
deep purple flowers
of the Desert Lupine—
shockingly beautiful–
with undertones of crimson
among the death-like color
of the gray rabbit brush.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
A young man tells
of his daughter
kidnapped by gangs:
“They kidnap children
and cut off their arms or feet,
sometimes a leg,
and set them
in front of mosques so people
will drop coins in front of them.
“They place them throughout the city
and kidnap many children.
“Our daughter had escaped.
They pulled all her hair out.
She is always terrified.
“I used to think the Devil
was outside of us….
but we are the Devil.
“Humankind is the Devil.”
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
It is a day
when the earth
turns just right,
when fish swim
close to the top
of the Great Lake
to feed on insects or plants,
when black-winged pelicans
dive in and out to fish,
and fishermen gather
in clumps, throwing
out their lines.
It is a day
before the storm,
humid and cloudy,
when the two of you
think of ways to
come together,
as part
of a turning of the universe,
a love that blows
a sweetness over us—
something unexpected.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The desert spring
does not come
in warm, dark thunderstorms,
but in relentless winds
that carry the precious nitrogen
to thirsty pines–
like the cosmic winds
that once brought
seed to our earth
a long time ago,
starting a chain
of endless life.
Endless winds
that blow everything
that is not bound or attached,
uncaging last year’s seeds
for the strange new birds
that have come for spring nesting.
Winds that loosen
the cords and strings
that hold us,
freeing us so we are ready
to accept the holy seed.
We place it in Her darkness
there, together on hands and knees.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
