This poem is a tip of the hat to indigenous peoples’ supremely wise practice of considering every decision in the light of how it will affect people seven generations down the road. I wrote this during the dark of the Trump regime. Still, this Mother Earth poem is as timeless now as ever. May such wisdom fuel us out of the current age of foolish, short-term profit.
A Seventh Generation Fuel
She had her eye on the prize
Pain know tension
Too the 24 hour news cycle
Quarterly prophets
Annual deports
Terminal terms
Compounding eras of history repeating
As if
She was knot that kind
Of fool
Rather every member empowered
By the seventh generation
A fuel of the highest order
Knowing the deference
Between
Would
And might
