by Ethel Mortenson Davis
There was a time when I solved the riddle of the universe.
I looked up into the night sky and knew the world would end in fire.
The wonderment of a child turning a smooth stone in his hands was gone.
The stars? A mere ceiling over the world.
Now that I have grown I have no longer solved
the riddle of the universe.
The universe has become a small, smooth river stone
that I turn again and again in my hands.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
for Rocco Tripodi who worked with children in theater
Little bird
came near
my window.
Ruffled feathers
couldn’t keep
his eyes from closing.
I found him later,
just a wisp
of a body.
Only yesterday
he was bright-eyed
with slicked-back feathers.
The townspeople said
he taught
their children
how to fly.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Larger than the rest,
a hummingbird came
to show me
how strong he’s become.
He sat on an almond branch
next to the sprinkler
taking a morning bath.
Two weeks ago
we saw
a baby hummingbird
barely clinging
to the feeder
while others pushed
him to the ground.
Now,
in the morning light,
he’s come to show me
he’s ready to make
the great journey
across the Continental Divide,
south
towards South America.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The dog who came to the gate and put her nose in Ethel’s hand.
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The way you buried
your nose in my hand
made me unable to forget you
that cold morning
at daybreak.
Skin and bones you were.
Perhaps a boot to your neck,
or starvation,
sent you fleeing to my gate,
asking for help.
So I let you in.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
He came to do plumbing work,
bringing an elderly man
with him.
If you have a job
in Indian country,
then you must support
an elderly person
or a relative.
Last year
the young carpenter
who came to do work
brought three elderly workers,
paid them out of his wages.
They spoke Dinè
to each other,
quietly,
throughout the afternoon,
finished their work
and then left
for the long, winding road
toward home.
The plumber dropped
the old man at his home—
because this is
the “Indian way.”
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
fourwindowspress 