AMISH COUNTRY for M. J. Lavin
In the cool of the morning
the breeze comes from somewhere else,
me on the porch in a rocking chair,
another day becoming the truth
without illusion, without misgivings.
In the fields the Amish plow and plant
with teams of horses, a people
sequestered from the anxieties
of being where they don’t belong,
getting their chores done, tending to their business.
The children walk to the schoolhouse.
The field swallows orchestrate a life of their own.
Humanity at risk, the Patriot Act like a cancer not in remission,
while global engineers study their satellite data.
A discussion over the air waves
about the psychopathic personality
(those who hurt others without regret).
I stay sane, plotting the poem for several days, and then
under the shade of a black elm tree, shedding
as much ego as I can, contemplate a god
to form me into the shape of who I want to be.