It reminded me of a poem my brother had written about his daughter when she was a small child.
So, I asked him for a copy:
The Amish in the Greyhound Station
by Steven D. Fortney
In the crowded, Greyhound station:
across the aisle the Amish:
two men, three women, a baby, and
a little girl -- who, were she not
gathered in her church's black,
this violet eyed graceful she
in other clothing, woman-later . . .
I would have touched her limb from limb!
She was Sigrid's age, about seven.
My odd Siggy, in tattered jeans
and yellow sweater, who talks to
the sun; who once dug tiny
bowls in snow-drifts. "Why are
you doing that?" she was asked.
"They are little crying places,"
she said. "And when these are
filled, I will dig some more."
Crying places! Sun speaking . . .
She plays by the benches,
a kitten tapping paper.
I watch the Amish girls watch her.
She will not fly from her flock;
but standing still, eyes shining,
she so intently watches Siggy play.
The buses roar and cough.
We watch the wimpled women
in stiff winter hoods sweep by.
these lean faces are stern, but
the quiet in them is like joy,
the nightfall of their robes
full of grace. "We are Raven," is
the witness, "flying high, alone!"
They leave the noisy room for
the cold garage; the child
intent now on her parent's way,
is last: eyes torn away from
my daughter, the sun's, snow's
odd child playing at my feet;
she turns and glances back;
trails the steps of her own:
They, wheeling high near their sun's
cold eye, over these bright rooms
where Sig and theirs might have played,
have cast shunnings, sad and wide . . .
