Tag Archives: empty hands

Empty Hands

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

You come again
with empty hands.
When I meet you
your hands have nothing for me.
Not a small desert blossom.
Not a tiny bit of driftwood.
No rock.

You could have reached down
on your walk across the desert
and picked up a small gift.

I yearn for those hands
to be generous.
My father,
although a tyrant,
always had something for me
in his large brown hands.

But you,
I will rename you
“Empty Hands.”

Tomorrow the light
that floods the high desert
will present itself to me
as my gift.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry