by Ethel Mortenson Davis
i the old woman,
with breath on my hand,
have come before–
down this hill with stoney sides–
have come
with
the spears of grass
against my legs–
and then the sea
and its green smells
after the rain–
until this garden.
i have come
thinking
the flowers to be richer
in the coming spring,
reaching out for their smell
with only my finger tips,
sitting awhile,
and waiting.
i the old woman
have passed
the sea
many times,
not looking
at the whale
of the waves,
thinking i have
time,
tomorrow.
fourwindowspress 