by Ethel Mortenson Davis
She dropped her eyes
when a white woman
said, good morning.
Silence
is all there was.
Perhaps she remembered
the Long Walk
and what the whites did:
How they starved
and killed
the Navajo,
down to five thousand—
how they decimated them
until their chromosomes
layed waste
and disease set in,
diseases where the people
cannot go out in the sun
without dying.
Silence is what she spoke.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
i the old woman,
with breath on my hand,
have come before–
down this hill with stoney sides–
have come
with
the spears of grass
against my legs–
and then the sea
and its green smells
after the rain–
until this garden.
i have come
thinking
the flowers to be richer
in the coming spring,
reaching out for their smell
with only my finger tips,
sitting awhile,
and waiting.
i the old woman
have passed
the sea
many times,
not looking
at the whale
of the waves,
thinking i have
time,
tomorrow.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Fall Wildflowers at Chaco Canyon, by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son
Walking Doors
by Alazanto, Kevin Davis
An old woman sits at edge of the road.
She waits for doors to walk through her,
but is greeted by a kiss to her cheek
from lush breezes
finding their sanctuary
in a sun who wants to be close.
A jackrabbit takes comfort in scurrying across her feet,
ears trailing a thousand miles–
and dangerous expectations
lunging forward a thousand years.
Some might say
needles of energy
warn of their love
as they patter onto the tops of black umbrellas.
Ripening seashells,
pernicious treetops, and
attentive arrowheads
all follow in slipstream
of that affectionate sun:
nova in a moment’s clarity.
The movement of an eternity
might be introduced to stillness:
Pocket mirrors would turn to sand,
covering the earth
and reflecting a newfound radiance of boiling hope.
Empty clay basins would soon over-wash
with psychical retinas,
as whispers emerge from the roots of long grasses.
In such confusing brilliance…
…the breezes are left to ponder,
“What if the sun no longer wanted to be so close?”
The sun assures,
“My affections are captured by your songs.
We both find sanctuary in our binding differences.
We must never doubt the depths of inspiration.”
Filed under Art, Photography, Poetry
fourwindowspress 