by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The hem of her dress
brushes against the trees
and the open meadows,
open spaces that bank
against the forest,
as if they were
from some other lifetime:
Brushing that brings
of the fox’s eyes
and the grass snake
up into the cedar tree
to escape the flooded ground.
She is eye-level to us,
holding her head high,
looking into us
and we into her.
by Thomas Davis
An Italian, or Petrarchan, Sonnet
He searched a year to find the cedar tree,
Determined that he’d find a lofty lord
That towered dark and gleaming like a sword
Thrust upward with a shaggy filigree
Of branches singing winds into a sea
Of sky where hawks and eagles soared
And wings stitched sky to land, a linking poured
Into the heartbeat of his fantasy.
He dreamed the tree into the song he sang,
Then fingered ancient rosewood cello strings
Into the filigree of cedar wind
That bowed as cries of distant eagles rang
Into the sky and wove tree, song, and wings
Into a music that will never end.