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.
Tag Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis
For You
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!
Mask: Sleeping Woman, a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Language of the Women
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The women of the village
started to weave
a new language
into their fabric—
shapes and forms
into their dress,
so they could communicate
with each other.
The men of the village
had treated them cruelly,
along with the children
and the animals
(whose spirits are interwoven).
Girls that tried to escape
had their ears and noses
cut off or worse.
Now, when the women
are in the market,
watched and separated,
they are able to send
messages to each other.
They are getting stronger
every day—
Mighty like the great river
that one day will flow out of that country.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Prayer
Is the prayer
of the Snowy Egret
less
than the Monk’s supplication?
Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Autumn
Photograph by Sonja Bingen
poem by Ethel Mortenson Davis
She listens
as closely as a lover listens
for the first
sign of her love’s approaching.
Suddenly,
she rushes and embraces winter,
quieted and covered by the coolness
of his death-white arms.
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Panther Moon, an abstract pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Life
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
we went past
somebody’s place,
and there were things
sitting all over
and kids
and a woman looking
out a window
at a cat,
and the kids
were in puddles
with their eyes in oceans,
and they were waiting
for a storm or something,
and the place
looked twice as junky
as it did when the snow was,
but it didn’t matter
because it smelled warm,
and the sky was heavy,
and life stood in the mud, open-mouthed.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Gray-White Geese
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Put your arms around me
to keep the desert winds
from blowing through me.
Now!
As the snow clouds have gathered
like gray-white geese
gathering on water.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Palais de Justice
This photograph by Alazanto, our son, Kevin Davis, seems to be an appropriate companion to Ethel Mortenson Davis’s poem, To the Innocent below.
Filed under Art
