Afternoon Prayer
“We alone, a little flock,
The few who still remain…”
–Amish Hymn
The county road that carried us north
bordered a nearby field of mown hay,
the second-cut stacked in peculiar bundles —
the mark of this plain folk, and the tedding
shortly after the cutting that speeded drying,
and the binding, like their own binding.
Our driver thought it was a herd of cows
kneeling in the meadow, an incomplete Eden,
distant from the other work of silo filling.
On the way back to our village homes
we saw a great hay wagon slowly move
in a pageant of toil, making the field a church.
Twin draft horses on strict six-hour shifts
sweated in harness, as their hot manure
dropped on the famished soil and stubble.
This was a broad bowl of earthy smells:
honeysuckle, mown hay, some cast-off strawberries,
while bearded men in wide-brimmed hats kept watch.
Edging this scene were tangled hedges and trees,
a plant catalog of coltsfoot, wild geranium,
Quaker ladies, Queen Anne’s lace, and ironweed.
The world deftly constructed here was a vast nest
of goldfinch, cardinals, blue-jays, warblers,
bluebirds, purple martins, dragonflies, and bees.
“O God Father we praise you,” their hymn of humility,
was acted out in front of us as we passed,
in the sadness and uncertainty of our seasons.
They came to this place, bonding with the land,
and were taught by the phases of the luminous moon
and wind currents to judge seed-time and harvest.
We slowed down, for just a moment, but could not hear
the old German they spoke, stunned by God,
as I trembled, knowing I heard nothing.
Voice from the Whirlwind
The storm never knew to stop
worrying the sagging roof,
the wind indifferent
that this is where I live —
but kept on battering
the silver metal sheets
set by Amish carpenters.
Death, distracted, passed me
overhead — for now —
where poems have acted
as a temporary guard,
as the vortex whipped,
lashed, and slammed
in whirlpool motion.
I left the shredded poems
where they fell with lumber
that could have made
a crucifix with broken nails.
Quiet came, as if a gift
of some departed spirit
that made the heartwood beat.
My heart will break — and has —
all vows that made me see
the temporary life I had
and would not always be
that showed as if I could
rest my head beside your head
and feel your wordless breath.
Royal Rhodes is a retired professor who taught classes in global religions, the Classics, religion & the arts, and death & dying. His poetry has appeared online and in a series of art/poetry collaborations for The Catbird [on the Yadkin] Press in North Carolina. His current project is a poetry/photography collaboration on sacred sites in Italy.
Sparks of Calliope 