by Ethel Mortenson Davis
“I could never
live in a place
where it doesn’t rain
and isn’t green.”
“It’s the same earth
that’s wrapped around
the great lakes,
just farther west
and south.”
“What do you see in it?”
“I see clouds hugging
the tall mountains and not
letting go.
I see the white rose
and purple blossom
existing in the dry land
because they are sacred.
I see the people
come outside and celebrate
with dance
in the eternal circle
when the rains finally
do come.”
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The ancient peoples
yoked themselves
to the night sky,
studied the moon’s cycles,
the planets,
and solar eclipses.
We, however, at night,
tie ourselves
to the television, computer,
and cell phone,
barely noticing
the daily changes
in temperature,
or lunar phases.
We have cut the cord,
lost our beginnings
and futures—
the time of when to start
spring planting,
the time of the salmon run
up the river,
and the time of calving
of elk and deer.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a pastel drawing by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
At dusk I found myself hurrying through the glacial forest.
The air was warm and humid, but the clay dust cool on my feet.
I was climbing the high trail to the foot bridge
that crossed the black granite waters.
The daylight was fading.
The moss-covered boulders looked like giants strewn
by some ancient glacier eons ago.
As the cold air rose around my legs,
multi-colored shells of snails criss-crossed the large tree trunks.
Water trickled down everywhere–through the moss carpet
thick with the red mushroom.
I had come here before, hoping to resolve a riddle,
but now I had a disease within my body and needed help.
Finally I reached the bridge, black and strong,
made with spaces between the floor planks wide enough
to see the great height at which I was.
The black river below looked like a black granite ribbon
glistening in the dim light.
Across the bridge I could see a clearing through the trees.
In the clearing was a large crowd of people.
Their faces were as warm as their hands.
Nightingale whispered:
These are people that have helped you
in some way throughout your life.
As I went back across the bridge
the moon was beginning to shine on the water,
but within me
I felt as if the sun was beginning to rise.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Crazy cottontail,
spinning in the desert,
running in circles
in snow
mixed with rain.
Must be happy,
back and forth.
Greening
of the world
means
eating again.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
First the first bees of spring collecting nectar from the grape hyacinth that are blooming, then…
photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
She had forgotten
how to make the bread,
how it had to feel
just right
before she laid it down
to rest.
She had forgotten
how to walk and talk
until
the old nurse came
to her at midnight
and pulled her
from her nightmare dream,
doing the work
of a true healer.
She had to relearn
the little things,
the simple things—
like how to make bread:
how to make the bread dough
feel like a baby’s skin
when it is ready
to rest and do its work—
like a baby feels
when you lay it down
to sleep
to do its work
of growing.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
fourwindowspress 