Inspired by Native American Joseph Brichac's poetry collection "Poetic Medicine."
The oldest voices whisper below the ground. Hands pull on roots — wind-beaten, gnarled — stories woven through the fabric of time. Bark peeled slick, leaves flattened, the wisdom of what makes whole lies between finger and thumb, passed along like a flame, a prayer. But the soil only knows part of the story. The other half lives in breath, a noise wafting through the room — a voice wrapping itself around the injured, knitting them back into themselves, as if words alone could summon strength, draw poison from blood. And when the breath becomes thin, when there’s no salve to ease the pain, there is no anger here. Only the stillness of understanding: death is on the far side of the cure.
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