a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Tag Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis
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.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Winter Solstice
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
She rolled
up the mat,
turned out
the lights,
and we are plunged
into darkness.
December is like
living in a cave,
but the earth
will not hear of it,
unfolds her fetal position
in her darkened room
and allows light to emerge
longer in the morning
and afternoon—
Sunlight able
to warm our deepest bones.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Loon
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
The Road I Walk
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
Climber
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
This is the right time
of the year
to be a climber of trees,
trusting only
the youngest
and strongest limbs
with your life,
your cheek resting
on the nook
of a shoulder—
the right time
of the year
for fireball colors.
This is the place
where one can look
back below
to see if mankind
has become a race
of Renaissance men.
Not yet,
the climber says,
not yet.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Patterns in Potowatomi Forest
a photo essay by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Cedar Fall
Wild Grapes
Filed under Art, Essays, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
Lesser World
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I saw them
in strings,
making the shape of V’s,
Canadian Geese,
flying high enough
to use the lake’s edge
as their guide:
Blue-green water
with white foam
at the edges,
over rushes with dark red plumes
on their trek
southward.
For our world will
become lesser
without them,
not as full of life
as the wet summer
has been
while we wait
for the silent season
of winter—
and for the quiet winter
of our life,
a more diminished one,
a lesser world.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
White Blossoms on a Branch
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
When all human
intervention has harmed us,
when all familia
have spent the fruits,
then the Great Spirit
gives to us our opening
from the darkness,
from the “going down
into the pit of our own agony,”
a candle,
a birth, a rite
into a new life.
Then we are assured—
like the mother tiger
who reassures her young
that they belong
to a family,
that they are important
in this world.
This is what it’s like—
White blossoms on a branch.
Note: I owe the quotation and inspiration for this poem to Herron, Elizabeth. 2010. Poetry for the Ear of God.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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