by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Today, coyote,
I will let you
own this land.
For you stood
your ground
this morning
across our path,
unwavering,
until I turned
to leave.
Tag Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis
Coyote
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Llama, a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
Messenger
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The brightly-colored
towhee
brings webbing
to repair
my broken,
gray world.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Butterfly
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The yellow and black swallowtail
came to the window
(I told you because
you were looking for a sign—
so you could leave).
The doctor said,
“Hours or weeks.”
We all wept together.
Hours would have been more humane.
Do you remember
when you were little,
and you asked,
“When you die
do you close your eyes
and go to sleep?”
‘Yes,” I said.
Filed under Poetry
Living in a Moment
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I have dropped
most moments
onto the darkened sand,
except for a few
that I have held in my hand—
like a small child
holds your hand—
too tightly.
There I go, in secret,
into the darkened cloak
of the Great Purple Hairstreak,
getting lost among
the bright blue and yellow jewels
at the outer edge
of her wings.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
White Delirium
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Oh,
how the white delirium
has set in me.
Memories ache in my throat.
Sweetness stains my mouth.
I cannot forget
your unfamiliar eyes
that cried out to me,
the end of us!
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
For You
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
you
smell like
wild snow
or
of trees
that hug
the earth.
turn your head.
you can hear
the moss
cling to the sides
of trees
and the sun
make your hair
the color
of red honey.
not there.
leave that hill
unnoticed.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Snowstorm
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Dragging on the valley floor,
moist drapes of clouds
spread open a window
to the sacred mountain—
white ermine across her shoulders.
Complete, at last!
fourwindowspress 