by Ethel Mortenson Davis
for April Chischilly
Little bird,
with wound on her chest,
comes to my water
each day.
Other birds
push her back,
but she is steadfast and stays.
She reminds me of you.
The first sunlight
that warms my body
in the early spring
after a long, cold winter
reminds me of you.
This morning, as the red, glowing mushroom
shone out from the dark forest floor,
an orange- red like no other,
it, too,
reminds me of you.
Filed under Uncategorized
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Our president shakes
the hand of the Brazilian leader,
congratulating him on
destroying the Amazon Rain Forest —
faster now than we can imagine.
The Hope of Trees
In the heavy rain
this morning
I waited for you,
but you did not come.
No walkers came at all;
so the dog and I
headed into the deep forest
in pouring rain.
As we walked deeper
into the trees
the rain lessened
until it nearly stopped,
except for a few large drops
that pinged down
from the canopy above.
See, you should have come.
You missed an unforgettable silence
and a white mist
that rose from the bottom
of the forest floor.
It looked so eerie!
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
Ethel Mortenson Davis’s drawing is the perfect artwork for the cover of the epic:
Ethel has gotten news that one of her poems, “Migration”, had been selected for an anthology that will be published by Water’s Edge Press. When the anthology is published it will be available from amazon.com or the publisher at https://www.waters-edge-press.com.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry, Published Books
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I didn’t know
you were becoming:
not a destination,
not an idea,
but rather like
a bud on the branch,
a flower in the making—
like being carried on the backs of horses,
but being the horses too.
I didn’t know you were becoming.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
It is the darkest
of all days so far
this year.
I’m sure it will
never be light again,
never with bright sunshine
and hidden breezes.
But tomorrow
will show up,
and the light
will gain over the dark,
and you will be running
down spring’s path,
clinging to my arm.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
to: Standing Feather
When we become
the most fragmented,
the most broken,
or so we think,
we step
onto the track,
the furrow
that is the circle
of the universe.
It is a river
that pulls us along,
connecting us
to something greater
than ourselves,
to the great spiral,
to the circle dance of the honey bee.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Blackberry moon,
moon of the blackberry month,
snags at me,
rips at my skin.
Star-gazers come
and get caught
in her sweet clutches,
but are overtaken
by a storm
with brittle, scratchy fingers
of lightning
that blackens out the moon.
Now we must wait
for the harvest moon
as she ripens
on top of the waters.
Note: This is Ethel’s contribution to the moon-night organized by Francha Barnard and Write-On Door County.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
fourwindowspress 