by Ethel Mortenson Davis
This is the right time
of the year
to be a climber of trees,
trusting only
the youngest
and strongest limbs
with your life,
your cheek resting
on the nook
of a shoulder—
the right time
of the year
for fireball colors.
This is the place
where one can look
back below
to see if mankind
has become a race
of Renaissance men.
Not yet,
the climber says,
not yet.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
All the holy books
of the world
could fit on the tip
of a swallow’s wing
as she dips and sways,
diving for flying
insects.
All the wisdom of mankind
could balance on her
unpretentious head
as she cares for
her young
under the eves
of our house,
eyes showing no deception,
fighting off the blackness
that sits all around her.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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