a literary journal published by the Black Earth Institute dedicated to re-forging the links between art and spirit, earth and society
The flower moon’s dimmed.
Impossible not to see ghosts in the trees.
The branches try to shake them off.
If I could only see what can’t be seen.
The poor dimensions of my sight.
The defiant dead.
Night sky flushed and richly dark.
I’m not crazy—the wind’s strange.
I wish I could illuminate time,
could pull down its edges.
All my dead sisters would return
and I would open my house to them.
I don’t fear what once was good.