Tag Archives: green moss


by Ethel Mortenson Davis

A small goldfinch
hit our glass door.
He lay unconscious—
in the process of dying.

“I will return later
when he is gone,”
she said.
“He needs quiet
and stillness.”

When she checked again
the bird was sitting up
and awake.
Life had come back to him.

“He will be stronger
and cherish life more,”
she thought.
“A bright spot
in his spring world,”

like the green
moss-covered stone
this winter—
shining out from under
the deep winter snows.

When she returned
he was gone.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry


by Ethel Mortenson Davis

There is a part
of me
that walks and talks and sees,
but then there is
another one
that has parts of wings:

Wings that take me
to the highest green cliff,
then drops me to the sea
to catch a ride on the back
of the dragonfly
as he crosses the land—

that take me
to the farthest planet,
the red one,

then pulls me
back to the forest
where green moss
clings to the north side
of trees
in winter’s cascade
of blue shadows on snow and sparkling sun.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry