a literary journal published by the Black Earth Institute dedicated to re-forging the links between art and spirit, earth and society
a place on the breastbone where a pendant rests.
Farmhouses root deep in black dirt,
huddle in maple and cottonwood windbreaks.
Far from the Pacific, the monastery’s bells,
the hospital room where I studied my daughter’s skin
as it pink-blossomed the hour after birth.
This is flyover country. Seen from above
it’s squares of croppish color, a monoculture.
At eyelevel wind whips the crops, which surge like the sea.