Chief George Spring is writing you a letter
enclosed with burrs of smoke. Bless. Bless
yourselves in ecologies of care, wield the moon-sword against capital.
Weld the night to red pines on fire. Get paid! End the ash borers’ feast.
For now, the northern hardwoods at the brook’s edge
are dying. Upstream of life, a cooing flows
from your Nicaraguan village through the Berkshires.
The Pocasset tribe is building. You are welcome here.
Te buscas en la memoria;
tu familia excriben sobre los soles intermables. Land, food, & seed
sovereignty is a being
& a being against; a white shield breaking
against the panther’s tooth & the trembling mountains. Be against
borders, imperialist dogs, small town Yanks.
Be a rural refuge returning
the sawdust of heaven rubbed from pocket pebbles
to a faith emblazoned on the frame
of your two-hundred-year-old barn. Tend the land
& free Palestine. No matter where you are, there will be hunters.
