by Ethel Mortenson Davis
March
and new snow
last night.
Black dog
on white,
two miles
into the woods,
and we see
timber wolf tracks.
Then sister wolf
flashes past us,
a great roaring ball
of white and gray
whose size
dwarfs you,
dog.
But we are
not afraid.
Just in awe.
To see a glimpse
of you
is like a gift,
like an eagle
taking off
into the air,
and we are lifted up.
I see a surprise
smile on your face.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
i the old woman,
with breath on my hand,
have come before–
down this hill with stoney sides–
have come
with
the spears of grass
against my legs–
and then the sea
and its green smells
after the rain–
until this garden.
i have come
thinking
the flowers to be richer
in the coming spring,
reaching out for their smell
with only my finger tips,
sitting awhile,
and waiting.
i the old woman
have passed
the sea
many times,
not looking
at the whale
of the waves,
thinking i have
time,
tomorrow.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
This morning
my black dog
found a story
in the grasses.
She sat down,
lingered and mulled
over it,
relishing every detail
and every character.
I hope that people
will linger and mull
over my poems
someday.
I could envision
them being copied
and recopied
on exquisite parchment
by cloistered monks…
But if not,
the joy
is in the playing
of the stringed instrument
and riding its vibrations
out and across
the face of the moon,
lingering and mulling
over its details.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
You came to the edge of the woods today
to catch my eye.
My dog did not see you, though,
young girl-deer.
You came to tell me “thank you,”
or so it seemed that way,
for digging you out of the mud yesterday.
Flailing, you were caught up to your neck.
My dog and I saw you
throwing your head from side to side, exhausted—
on our walk in the rain-soaked morning.
Two came to dig you out,
and, after resting, you got up
and ran away.
So today you came back with gratitude,
or your face looked that way—
like my long lost daughter.
You came to make me understand
that you were full of thankfulness,
to catch my eye,
or so it seemed that way.
Copyright © 2010, I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The winter nights are best:
Her floors are swept
back and forth
and back again
with heaps of snow.
Her wind howls
like timber wolves
in some cold, inhuman land.
She’s almost thought
to be, in her heart, a beast,
But her snow
drifts too deep;
her wind blows too strong,
and weakness flees
the human heart again.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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