Excerpts from: Secrets from the Center of the World
Joy Harjo, Creek Nation poet

My cheek is flat against memory described by stone and lichen.
The center of the world is within reach.
It is as familiar as your name, as strange as monsters in your sleep.

I have lost my way many times in this world, only to return to
These rounded shimmering hills and see myself recreated more
Beautiful than I could ever believe.

The earth has dreamed me to stand on the rise of this highway
To admire who she has become.

The land is a poem of ochre 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?

It's true the landscape forms the mind.