I sit upon the rocky lakeshore, waves
Long, curving lines that sweep and sing their music
Into the rhythms of my thoughts, their cryptic,
Moon-driven spirit a metaphor that graves
Itself into the thought that strikes me, raves
Unchecked into a day so wind-blown, gray,
It makes me wonder why the disarray
I feel inside seems dark, a chasmal cave.
Then, suddenly, I see the waves as souls
That sweep into a shore that no man sees,
And as they chant into the beach, the shoals
Of rocks become a shore of certainties,
An incantation on the shore, their canticle
Eternity, immersion mystical.
an abstract pastel drawing by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Fall Wildflowers at Chaco Canyon, by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son
by Alazanto, Kevin Davis
An old woman sits at edge of the road.
She waits for doors to walk through her,
but is greeted by a kiss to her cheek
from lush breezes
finding their sanctuary
in a sun who wants to be close.
A jackrabbit takes comfort in scurrying across her feet,
ears trailing a thousand miles–
and dangerous expectations
lunging forward a thousand years.
Some might say
needles of energy
warn of their love
as they patter onto the tops of black umbrellas.
pernicious treetops, and
all follow in slipstream
of that affectionate sun:
nova in a moment’s clarity.
The movement of an eternity
might be introduced to stillness:
Pocket mirrors would turn to sand,
covering the earth
and reflecting a newfound radiance of boiling hope.
Empty clay basins would soon over-wash
with psychical retinas,
as whispers emerge from the roots of long grasses.
In such confusing brilliance…
…the breezes are left to ponder,
“What if the sun no longer wanted to be so close?”
The sun assures,
“My affections are captured by your songs.
We both find sanctuary in our binding differences.
We must never doubt the depths of inspiration.”