those people

you see, it’s this way:

all those so strange people
and all their equally strange beliefs
and odd traditions and clothes
and gods and sexual preferences

all their countries and cultures
and bizarrely performed rituals
and incomprehensible sayings
and very imperfect ideas

all of which frighten you
and leave you befuddled
and most agitated to imagine
that perhaps they might, oh,

just might move in next door
and tempt your children away
from the perfect truth
you most zealously embrace—

all those dangerous people
are just like each blade of grass
each gentle sunning dandelion
wishing for nothing more sinister

than that you do not step on them,
that you leave them in peace

The view in my garden today.