by Ethel Mortenson Davis
It’s been too long
since we last talked.
I must tell you
that men have had
their way with her.
She is hurt and sick,
but keeps giving us gifts,
ignoring their torture
and disrespect.
Today she surprises us
with the white hares.
They hop over each other
making giggling sounds,
laughing at the prairie grasses.
She gives the spring rain
that coaxes green buds.
Soon we will plant
tomato and egg plants.
She gives us seeds to sprout,
not darkness, nor pain,
nor death.
fourwindowspress 