by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The old poet,
thrown out,
weeps across
the desert
until he climbs
the rim of the canyon,
and there he takes
a page from his book
and writes,
“There is a canyon people
who celebrate the first laugh
of their children.”
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Ethel Mortenson Davis
Your cheek
is against
the universe.
I see you
in the plumed
desert flower
that has blossomed
because of many
winter snows,
standing erect
against driving winds,
and in
the desert iris,
sky-blue,
who takes her stand
wild-eyed
against all odds.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The brightly-colored
towhee
brings webbing
to repair
my broken,
gray world.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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
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
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
