Remember to walk the benign road,
of healing and reparation,
away from the virulent poisons of earth.


The chastening of the fields with the
harvest is as the light of the sun
and moon that sweep o’er the grain.


The native girl’s command of the elements
reached a crescendo as I scribbled on paper—
as birds pillaged the stinging shoreline
of mussels, salted threads
of bladderwrack, dark purple,
and plucked beneath tiny rocks.
Finally she took her mace in hand
and decided to confront the sea
directly, padding on in her tiny
worn moccasins, to the water’s edge.
The salt tide roared in turbulence.
She, both amiable and zealous,
only spoke: “O forbidding sea,
who once cared for the elders
of the First Nations People
with both nourishment
and harmony, I am Raven.
Of the moon’s weighty feat,
and the sun’s bright heat,
you are lofty in the mansions of the deep.”
This she spoke, translucent,
while the waters crashed at her feet.

c. Emily Isaacsson. Tate Publishing.


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