by Joy Harjo
This land is a poem of ocher and burnt sand I could never write,
unless paper were the sacrament of sky, and ink the broken line of
wild horses staggering the horizon several miles away. Even then,
does anything written ever matter to the earth, wind and sky?
from How We Became Human: New and Selected Poems: 1975-2001
by Joy Harjo, W. W. Norton, 2002
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