by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Wolf moon with yellow-green eyes, slipping between trees, slipping from heaven. Timber wolf with yellow-green eyes, slipping between trees, slipping between exploding bullets- heaven slipping between our fingers.
Tag Archives: Davis
Heaven
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
What Hope Is
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I’ll tell you what hope is. It’s not going to the grocery store and getting yelled at for bringing your screaming son along and then next week doing it again. It is breaking through the thick cloak that surrounds him and finding a small increment of communication, reaching down into the cylinder of autism and pulling out shafts of light.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
A Quiet Night
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
Christmas
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
We dropped her off after the Christmas program. Snow was on the ground. The night was cold. We waited, with our car running, for her to get inside. But, instead of going in the front door, she scurried up a wooden ladder that was placed outside to an upstairs bedroom. Faster than a blink of an eye she went, faster than we ran up our own stairs at home.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
The Racing Clouds of Winter
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis
Separation
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
At birth, the farmer separated the calf from its mother. He wiped away the amniotic fluid with a gunny sack before putting him in a separate pen. Black children born to enslaved parents were taken from their weeping mothers and moved hundreds of miles away. Native children were snatched from anxious parents and moved to some miserable life. A Central American baby Is ripped from its mother’s arms. Both baby and mother’s spirits are broken. The farmer’s wife protested, “keep the calf with its mother. Do you need every ounce of milk?” “This is the way we do things,” replied the farmer.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
The New Calves
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The new calves are growing stiff from the wetness of birth, and old men come running across the fields asking, who killed our apple-blossom time? I say to them, surely dead leaves can’t grow in your pockets now.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
Flicker
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
At dawn a loud crash sounded against the house. A flicker lay struggling on the ground, his life ending. A beautiful bird with speckled chest, yellow tail, and red feathers on his head looked as though his spine was broken. I put him in a quiet part of the garden. His weak cries were fearful. Later that day, when I checked, he seemed closer to death. The next morning when I went to collect him, he was gone. I want to think he got up and flew up to the top of my tree, but probably a cat or fox found him on their trek across the country.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
Unfurrowing
by Ethel Mortenson Davis The unfurrowing of new leaves is like a carefully synchronized orchestra with each musician in exact harmony. But we do not stand and applaud. Only Oriole gets up and sings his splendid song, dressed in brightly colored vestments.
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The Rite of Spring
photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
