Tag Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis

February 9, 2012 · 6:27 am

The Deer

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.

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February 2, 2012 · 6:32 am

Spanish Village

a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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February 1, 2012 · 6:28 am

The Winter Nights Are Best

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.

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January 30, 2012 · 6:30 am

The Black Snake

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

In the center
of our galaxy
the Milky Way,
a great black snake lives
and mesmerizes stars
so they will
get close enough
for her to swallow—
while, at the same time,
she gives birth
to new stars.
They come out of her
and go flying off
into the cosmos
as far as they can go
to escape
her clutches.

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January 27, 2012 · 6:44 am

The Engineer

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

In winter
a boy or girl could ice skate
up the branch
of Little Sandy Creek
as far as their strength could hold out
before the heavy snows of January
spoiled the ice.

It was here
they would dream
about who they would become,
about what they would do
with their lives
when they grew up—
before the willows
became too thick and
turned them back,

or when the shallow spots,
under the bridges,
with stones
would stop them.

Charlie could skate for miles
before he went home
to put steaming copper kettles
of water on his stove
to bend slats of wood
to make skis with curled ends

before the heavy snows of January and February
swept across us.

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January 23, 2012 · 6:08 am

Habitat

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The monsoons
sweeten the bounty
of the high desert meadows.
Curious blossoms
burst out everywhere.
Green grass
carried in the bellies of horses
finally becomes enough.

Perhaps the monsoons
will not return next year.
Our earth is not a permanent habitat.
One day our sun will explode
and melt our earth.
It will not care for us forever–

like my dog knows instinctively
when I leave her in the driveway.
Perhaps I will not return.
Perhaps that means
the end of her.

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January 21, 2012 · 1:16 pm

Ancestor

pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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January 19, 2012 · 6:42 am

The Source

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I am going deep within myself,
to where gates no longer open,
but instead
walls are crossed upon walls
between the four directions.
Here is where the wolf
cannot penetrate again,
and the lion cannot eat my flesh.

Like some wounded animal
that crawls back to his source,
I am going deep within myself
to find the cool stillness.
I will not come out again
until my skin has thickened.

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January 14, 2012 · 11:56 am

Song of Ecstasy

a pastel and poem by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Song of Ecstasy

She is the sort that hears the song
the hills make after a heavy rain—
a humming sound one hears
first through the finger tips,
then the ears.

She’s the sort that dances with antelope at dusk,
playing in the field until dawn.

She’s the sort that makes the insect song—
not bell, nor click, but a rhythm in-between:

like the sound the silver pieces
sewn on her dress and leggings make,
a sound like wind and bell
as she makes her grand entry
in a circle around the village—

head held high,
her hair flowing behind her—

tasting the song of pure ecstasy
like honey on the tongue.

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January 11, 2012 · 6:36 am

Enchantment

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I sleep
between the moons of New Mexico—
sunset and sunrise.
My bed is the yellow-ocher grasses
dotted with green juniper and piñon.

I am the summer sun climbing
from the life-giving phase
into the deadly phase–
like the rattlesnake,
deadly and life-giving,
that blends into the yellow grasses
as it careens along
the canyon’s face.

I cover myself
with the blue mountains,
with moon-like stars.

I am the spirit of wonderment.
I am a spell
upon every living being
in my path.

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Tag Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis

The Deer

Spanish Village

The Winter Nights Are Best

The Black Snake

The Engineer

Habitat

Ancestor

The Source

Song of Ecstasy

Enchantment

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