by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Fresh snow
with the same fox trail
ahead of us
each morning.
The cold at times
becomes unmovable,
but we must
meet her at her throat;
we must reach down
inside ourselves
for strength,
or
we will be swallowed up
like the coyote
that morning
who stood his ground,
unmovable.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I shouldn’t have
come up over the bluff,
because that’s when
I saw the great expanse
of sky and clouds.
This morning, on my walk,
the face of the red mesa
looked cold,
and then
these extraordinary
fall clouds
beckoned me
to come up into them–
yes, taken up into
the sky.
But in a moment
my eye caught sight
of a coyote
padding along
the valley floor
almost the color
of the dirt and brush
around him,
bringing me back
to reality and hardness.
Stay hidden, coyote,
and step away
from man–
because where he steps
death is all around.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The undiscovered land
of the high desert
takes our faces
in her hands
and asks,
“What kind of people
are we?”
“What kind of people
do we want to become?”
She has a way
of changing us
as we walk past
the rocky, dark soils
with giant cedars,
the singular mountain,
white-capped,
and the coyote
moving in his spring dance.
This undiscovered land
takes our faces
in both her hands….
and asks….
and asks….
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Today, coyote,
I will let you
own this land.
For you stood
your ground
this morning
across our path,
unwavering,
until I turned
to leave.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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