Tag Archives: trees

Trees

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Trees cover most of the northern half of Wisconsin.
Two hundred years ago
Wisconsin was a thick forest,
a network of interrelated lives
that spoke to each other
through their inner capillaries.

Trees have brains.
When an enemy
comes into the forest,
they communicate to
the rest of the trees
and put out a chemical
to fight the pest.

When trees are dying,
they gather all their nutrients,
like carbon, potassium and water,
and send them along
their inner pathways
to their children and grandchildren.

They are living creatures
with intelligence —
more compassionate
than many of us.

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Winter River

a photograph by Sonja Bingen

Winter River

 

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Sound of Breathing

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

This morning
the wind through the trees
sounded like air
through giant bellows,

like large lungs
breathing in air
and out air,

Like we felt,
next to our mother
as infants,
a great pair of lungs
that we knew somehow was

the source of life.

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Where We Walk in Potawatomi Every Morning

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A photograph by Sonja Bingen after her walk with her mother and father in Potawatomi State Park a mile from our house in Sturgeon Bay, the place where Ethel and I walk with our dogs, Juno and Pax, every morning even in January and February.

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Trees

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The trees have always
extended their hands to us,
making deep, cool chambers of cedar,
birch and maple,
where enlightenment is possible.

But we, in turn,
have responded
with a sharp slap
to the side of their face.

The women of Kenya
started a green revolution
across their land:
Women planting trees
in hope of stopping
the encroaching desert.

Trees that created a moist climate,
pulling water to the parched lips of Kenya.

When our great, great, grandchildren
ask us what we have done
to save the trees on our planet,
will we be the generation of enlightenment,
or one with empty hands?

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Flight

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

In memory of  Donald Sharp and Rumi

Was it the spring stream,
flowing out of the escarpment
tumbling, bubbling over fallen birch trees?

Or was it the large, sloppy snowflakes
falling in the spring morning’s forest,
as trees held their breath,
held their breathing
for the sun to overtake the cold,

that made my wings open and close,

readying me to take flight?

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Moon and Night Trees

a photograph by Sonja Bingen, our daughter
moon and trees

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November 2, 2014 · 8:10 am

Reach

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.

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Signs of Coming Spring: Open Water

a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Signs of Spring, Open Water

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Kinship

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.

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