Tag Archives: Davis

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I’m sure night was made
when man invented war
so that darkness would
put her arms around him,
slowing him down
so that he could think things over.
And then at dawn
start new again.

I’m sure night was made
when war came to this family,
breath knocked out of the man,
the woman and child 
languishing in the street.
Darkness would give them
a few moments of relief.

I’m sure darkness was made
when man invented war.