Tag Archives: earth

Lost

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

“Who were these people?”

“They were people
who overpopulated their planet,
depleting all its natural elements.”

“They were at continuous war
with each other,
never satisfied with their treaties.”

“Eventually they lost their atmosphere.”

“Then nothing stayed on the planet.
Everything blew off.”

“Yes, in just a few thousand years
their life and their planet died.”

“They called themselves Earth, I think.
Earth.”

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Heaven

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

img_0333

Heaven

An astronaut that repaired
the Hubble spacecraft
said recently
that when he stepped out
on his first spacewalk
and saw the lighted
blue and white earth
underneath him,

he knew
he was looking
at heaven.

I wonder how
we would have thought
of the land, the animals,
and the people
if we would have known
our earth was heaven?

If this was all the heaven
there will ever be?

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In the Universe of Trees

a photograph by Sonja Bingen, our daughter

universe-of-trees

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November 29, 2016 · 3:12 pm

The Cloak

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

 The earth dresses in
the cloak of humanity,
but it does not fit.

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How Hard

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

 
We talked about children,
their schooling,
their boyfriends.
How they are becoming
serious about their relationships.

We talked about children
becoming people.
How hard it is.

We talked about
how hard creating
a new piece of art is.

How much energy
the making of art takes —
an extraordinary piece of art.

How hard that is:
Like the yellow orchid
in the forest this morning
among the blue waters.
How hard the earth struggled
to bring about that flower:

Like my ancestors
that were sailors,
sailing to other lands —
among the blue waters —

how hard.

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Earth

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

If only it would snow,
white covering red;
red now is everywhere
in this world.
 
If you go up into space
all that is made by man is gray;
gray is everywhere
in this world.
 
I want to put a ladder
further up
so that what I see
is the red-brown
of the earth,
 
the green of vegetation,
and the lovely blue of water,
shrouded by a white,
see-through shawl
around her shoulders
where there is no longer gray.

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Threads

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The threads
on the hem of the skirt
have been pulled out,
leaving the earth
jagged and uneven,
wounded
like the trapper
this morning
ripping the fox
from the trap
after crushing its skull,
leaving the lake’s edge
uneven.

Threads pulled out.

Threads
that bound us
that morning
as a gray fox
sprang in front of us,
a delightful look on his face
as he carried his prey in his mouth.

Threads that pulled us
to the earth’s bosom,
holding us to a cherished breast.

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