I have gone
to the four corners canyon
to listen
for the song,
but it is silent,
except for the wind whooshing
through junipers.
Last night
great storm clouds gathered
in the south.
This morning, before light,
I woke to chanting—
A woman’s voice
below my window.
Note: Written after a long period of writer’s block.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
in too long
of an afternoon
eyes wait,
lost to the whirling, dark,
bitter,
apple-green sky
burdened black,
unaware
fields
suddenly
carried out to sea,
drowned green
in the white foam.
after,
new
songs emerge,
gasping,
bent
under
the newness.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a pastel drawing by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The snowflakes that hit
the Patagonian glacier
take three-hundred years
before they are released–
released into fluid streams
that etch their way
to the bottom of the
great glacier,
breaking it’s back
before moving it out
Into the ocean.
There should be places
where no man
sets his foot.
The earth doesn’t seem
to be the right place
for man….
or
mankind does not seem
to fit the earth,
but other species know
how to live
with boundaries.
When there is scarcity,
other animals know never to reach
a population
greater than the resources.
Man is looking
to be released
from his own doing,
released from
his own glacier.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
A great cat
stretches her
elongated muscles
in the morning light,
sending a yawn
rippling along
her wiry body,
paying little attention
to the scurrying ants
on her ground.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Our son would not last
another night.
We stopped to have coffee
at a corner restaurant.
The woman in the booth
next to us said,
“Lemar, I told you
to sit down and shut up,
or I’ll slap you
up the side of your head.”
The little boy sat down
and then stood up,
not knowing what to do.
Finally he sat down.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Once, when the creek
had swelled its banks in spring,
and I had run to meet its new boundaries
to build a raft again
that could carry me down the Little Sandy
toward lands unknown,
I was sidetracked by a patch
of blue and yellow violets—
too many to let go unnoticed,
found among the wet and shady places—
and I forgot about the countries unseen.
And in fist-fulls I came running,
sharing them with you—
and you received them well,
arranging them in glass jars,
teaching me to love
the spring beauties and things:
The funny-faced Holstein calves
and the timid chickadees
who came in December
to snatch your winter’s crumbs.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
A Photo Essay by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Leg Pollen Sack on a Honey Bee
Great Purple Hairstreak
Eggs of a Long-Tailed New Mexican Black Bird
Filed under Art, Essays, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
She had missed
the elk and rabbit
this morning.
She didn’t see
the grasses parted
where a trail
was apparent,
where rabbit brush
was trampled down
from the great bodies of elk.
But they watched her
as she walked by.
She unaware,
this morning,
of their presence.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
fourwindowspress 