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Debris Field

a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The moon is most beautiful
at her beginning, or end.
Like a fine-edged sickle
punctuating the blackness.

A lot like you.
Not outstanding.
Almost missed.
Nevertheless beautiful.

Step outside with me.
We’ll see her
from the steps.
Let your skin
touch the cold.

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Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems