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.