Tag Archives: gifts

Men Have Had Their Way With Her

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

It’s been too long
since we last talked.
I must tell you
that men have had
their way with her.

She is hurt and sick,
but keeps giving us gifts,
ignoring their torture
and disrespect.

Today she surprises us
with the white hares.
They hop over each other
making giggling sounds,
laughing at the prairie grasses.

She gives the spring rain
that coaxes green buds.
Soon we will plant
tomato and egg plants.

She gives us seeds to sprout,
not darkness, nor pain,
nor death.

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The Builder

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

We were hoping
to catch a glimpse of
the one who made this place,
a summer home
by the water.

We wanted to see him or her,
but we keep missing him.

Perhaps if we rise
early in the morning
when it is still dark
we will glimpse this one.

Or if we delay in the evening,
when the summer light
lays on our shoulders
for endless hours,
we will see the builder.

I know he or she has left gifts everywhere,
like the pile of stones
at the water’s edge.

It is a masterful display
of color and size,
each one shiny
from the motion of water,

a universe within itself.

 

 

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Forest

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

It’s where the snow lies
inside the beating heart;
the forest,
who speaks in voices
across the wind,
waiting for the conductor
to begin
its movement springward:

Where teeth tear open
the flesh of a kill,
wolfing it down in mouthfuls
before another comes
to claim it as its own—

Where mankind
has nailed her hindquarters
to a board.

In her anguish
and suffering
the forest
still presents us
with gifts
indescribable.

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