a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Category Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis
Elephant Track
By Ethel Mortenson Davis
Last night two men slept close to an elephant trail, hoping to see the herd. In the morning they discovered an elephant track between their two sleeping bags. We are the same. We are part of them, they, part of us. This morning we ran to catch a glimpse of the last of October’s light as she lit the tops of trees on fire, and heard the voices of cranes, high above our heads, that we have heard a thousand times before. But still, we were lifted. A great river drifts through us. She glimpses us to see if we have caught the ripples she throws out.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
Figures
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
The Place Where We Live, Rock Island
Photographs of Rock Island by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
There is Still Time
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
But there is still a sunrise this morning, red for rain. We can still count the stars in Orion and see the night sky. There is still a dog at the end of the bed. He is a guardian of our souls. There is time to reach beyond smallness that resides in our hearts.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
Fawn
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Your spotted back fits well in the dappled light of the wood as you wait utterly still for the night and her returning.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
Come
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
The Songs They Sing
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
This place. . . I cannot say. . . Its name is different. . . for the people that did not stay. The bird song is a different song, a song from a different tongue. Was it music from Potawatomi? or Ojibwa? Was it Ottawa? or Menominee? This place looked different then. Those people’s tongues are lost again. They drift in and out of foxfire embers. Where are their songs? The songs they sing?
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
I Will Wait
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I will wait
for the foxfire tonight,
for the glistening jewels
of the wood.
I will nuddle
along the lopeway,
following the gallery
worn in paths by the deer.
I will nudge the white dag
that sits on top
of the marsh,
she, a low-lying friend.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
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