a photograph by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son
The Bread Maker
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
She had forgotten
how to make the bread,
how it had to feel
just right
before she laid it down
to rest.
She had forgotten
how to walk and talk
until
the old nurse came
to her at midnight
and pulled her
from her nightmare dream,
doing the work
of a true healer.
She had to relearn
the little things,
the simple things—
like how to make bread:
how to make the bread dough
feel like a baby’s skin
when it is ready
to rest and do its work—
like a baby feels
when you lay it down
to sleep
to do its work
of growing.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Spring’s First Bee
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
Sun, Clouds, Goose, and Reeds
a children’s poem by Thomas Davis
A dragon ate away the night!
Clouds, white from fear, fled through the sky.
A morning trumpet stormed to flight
As reeds lay silent, hushed and shy.
The sun burned red into sky-blue.
Great ships sailed white from burning sun.
A lonely goose with honking flew
Up from hushed pickets, slim and glum.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
On the Fence
a photograph by Sonja Bingen, our daughter, of our two grandsons
Filed under Art, Photography
The Doctor
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
He was the head
of Oncology,
a great mountain of a man
who wore a beautiful suit.
He greeted the young man
who was dying and his parents.
When the young man’s friends
went above the doctor’s head
to try to get him admitted
to another hospital,
for they loved the young man,
the doctor never came back
to check on the dying man,
but sent his assistant—
would not acknowledge the parents
when they saw him in the hallways.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
“It shall bruise your head and you shall bruise his heel” Genesis
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
In the Stone Fields
a love poem for Ethel Mortenson Davis by Thomas Davis
In the stone fields
The roots of the pinyon
Interweave with stone.
In the barest silence
Song is worn like a cloak
Of the brightest colors.
May my lips be as a brook
Bubbling forth songs
In praise of my love.
May my heart be as a pinyon,
Drawing forth music
From the barest stones
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
Interior of St. Francis in Santa Fe, New Mexico
a photograph by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son
Filed under Art, Photography
Great Canyon
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
“You must come.”
“No, not yet.”
“You have no choice.”
“But I must right something
in my life.
Wait till morning.”
“You have no more mornings
in your quiver.”
“Oh.”
“Now, let go
of the rim
of the Great Canyon.”
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
fourwindowspress 