by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Her reach finds
small openings
in the forest canopy
until the carpet
at the bottom brings
every kind of plant and fern to formation.
These are true families
that enjoy each other’s company–
some living at the top of hills,
other kinds in depressions–
trees that are dependent
on plants around them,
plants that only live by certain trees.
Step lightly.
Speak in whispers,
for there are babies sleeping
everywhere.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The old man
had a rind to him.
You could tell
by the way
his mouth
shaped his words.
He knew
what the land
could produce
and what it could not.
His cells knew
what to grow,
going back
to his ancestors
in the Iberian Peninsula.
They told him
what plants to use
for curing illnesses
and what plants
were good for food.
He didn’t see
these connecting lines
in his sons,
but he saw them
in his granddaughter,
in the way she kneeled
near the plant.
He felt the lines
going back
to ancient lands
in the way
she touched
the sheep.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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