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

4 responses to “Laborer

  1. Elizabeth Herron

    This is awesome. Thank you Ethel.

  2. Such a mysterious quality to these verses, Ethel; an enchantment.

  3. Beautiful and mystical. A nice read.

  4. The melding of dream and “waking”. I know that place and I love the way you found here of bringing it to life and inviting us to enter it.

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