by Ethel Mortenson Davis
“I run because it is my culture.”
“My father is not there for me
because he is a drunk.”
“The runners with me
are my family.”
“My culture says that I must greet
the sun by running.”
“I think about my future
when I am running.”
“I think about what my life
is going to be.”
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I’ve come again
to watch your woods,
snow up to my thighs,
winds flying
across the tops of trees—
like when I was little.
On windy days
I would run
into the woods
and listen to the wind
roaring across the tops
of trees,
but stillness would
be beneath.
I think of trees
as family,
kin,
those that are
always there,
steel cores,
centurions
that guard us
from all the clamor
at the top,
the quiet and stillness
beneath,
close family.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Crazy cottontail,
spinning in the desert,
running in circles
in snow
mixed with rain.
Must be happy,
back and forth.
Greening
of the world
means
eating again.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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