by Ethel Mortenson Davis
we cannot go
to another planet,
to another earth
in another solar system.
We are too late for that,
too far away.
Instead, we must
sit down, you and I,
and look into each other’s eyes,
our arms embracing,
before we can save
any of us.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography, poems, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
He was dressed
like a laborer
bending around in the yard
in working clothes.
He whistled tunes
that were classical symphonies.
I thought, how strange
he is dressed —
yet knows these tunes.
He should be dressed
in a beautiful coat like Joseph’s.
I went to the window
looking for him,
still hearing his whistling,
but then realized
I was waking from a dream;
like the Navajo holy woman
chanting under my window
that early morning.
I went to all the windows
to catch a glimpse of her,
but then realized
she was part of my dream.
Who are these people?
I think they are the healers
that repair
the holes in the universe,
the tear,
the rift just outside
my window.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Uncategorized
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