I am grass growing and the shearer of grass,
I am the willow and the splitter of laths,
weaver and the thing woven, marriage of willow and grass.
I am frost on the land and the land’s life,
breath and beast and the sharp rock underfoot,:
in me the mountain lives, and the owl strikes,
and I in them. I am the sun’s twin,
mover of blood and the blood lost,
I am the deer and the deer’s death.
I am the burr in your conscience:
acknowledge me.

–Ila Abernathy

Refuting Lincoln

A Poem by Blake Adamson

Lincoln said days were swift as an Indian arrow
I don’t believe that’s true
Days are like three greased Indian bullets
Every two you take to the heart
The third you put into your brain
And whatever the outcome
Everybody else is left
To pick up the itty bitty
Bits and pieces left