by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Because this night
is so cold and beautiful
with a thin-lipped moon
just above the horizon,
we will walk the road.
The road over there–
that is waiting,
the one that climbs
up into the Zuni Mountains.
A man once said
that my poems
were only scratches on paper.
The light is getting late,
and the dogs are anxious.
The poems are waiting out there
in the wildness
to say and be,
themselves.
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