by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Come with me,
down where the trees are,
for there is a line of sky
without clouds,
and soon the earth
will be the color of red honey.
Come with me,
for there is enough feed
for the horses,
and when we stop to sleep
we’ll keep the dogs close
to warm us.
Come with me,
for the songs of the Ancients
are calling.
Orion is straight above our heads,
and we must make
this night’s journey.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
In the early morning
Orion is already setting
In the western sky.
I follow it,
getting closer
to the spring equinox,
pointing north past
the north star.
The north,
where spring first appears
in bunches of wild leeks,
the first green in the forest,
dug up by deer
for their delectable bulbs.
Then a carpet of
spring beauties and anemones follow,
flooding the forest floor.
It was there
where you laid your head
in a bed of wild flowers.
The fiddle-head ferns
were just unwinding
and in a month
would reach our shoulders.
It was there,
where you wore
bells on your hips
so as not to surprise
the black bear with cubs
and the gray timber wolf
on his trek across the land.
Now Orion sets in the southwest,
pointing toward spring.
I will plant corn this year,
perhaps on the western side
of the garden.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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