by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The snow laid down
on the ground
thick and deep,
covering over
the mistakes
we made yesterday—
white covering
over red–
like the wounded deer
that winter
in the swamp
missed by tracking hunters.
He found refuge
among the cedars
in the water.
He laid still,
but spirit still moved
in his eyes
as snow
quietly covered him—
white covering
over red.
Copyright © I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico, 2010.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
You come again
with empty hands.
When I meet you
your hands have nothing for me.
Not a small desert blossom.
Not a tiny bit of driftwood.
No rock.
You could have reached down
on your walk across the desert
and picked up a small gift.
I yearn for those hands
to be generous.
My father,
although a tyrant,
always had something for me
in his large brown hands.
But you,
I will rename you
“Empty Hands.”
Tomorrow the light
that floods the high desert
will present itself to me
as my gift.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I’ll tell you
what it’s like.
It’s like a train
coming
and rolling
over you.
You can’t get
out of the way
or
stop the train
because
it’s too late.
All you can do
is take it–
let it run over you,
let the train
finish its job.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis to the Navajo
I’ll bring a peach sapling
for you–
for the peach trees
that were cut
and burned.
And I’ll bring seed corn
for you–
for the corn that was pulled
out before it gave birth.
I’ll bring two lambs
for you–
for all the sheep
they killed and laid
at your feet
there on the ground
with your tears.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The old man
had a rind to him.
You could tell
by the way
his mouth
shaped his words.
He knew
what the land
could produce
and what it could not.
His cells knew
what to grow,
going back
to his ancestors
in the Iberian Peninsula.
They told him
what plants to use
for curing illnesses
and what plants
were good for food.
He didn’t see
these connecting lines
in his sons,
but he saw them
in his granddaughter,
in the way she kneeled
near the plant.
He felt the lines
going back
to ancient lands
in the way
she touched
the sheep.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I shouldn’t have
come up over the bluff,
because that’s when
I saw the great expanse
of sky and clouds.
This morning, on my walk,
the face of the red mesa
looked cold,
and then
these extraordinary
fall clouds
beckoned me
to come up into them–
yes, taken up into
the sky.
But in a moment
my eye caught sight
of a coyote
padding along
the valley floor
almost the color
of the dirt and brush
around him,
bringing me back
to reality and hardness.
Stay hidden, coyote,
and step away
from man–
because where he steps
death is all around.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
