In The Churches Of A Holiday Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When the windmills stop-
The silence of death: the waves do not move:
The fish seem to sleep:
They make a blanket of their gills,
And a teepee of their steps,
As we reside at their shoulders, trying to believe
Even though our grandparents are
Gone
And scalped:
And the new flag only has the color green:
Grasshoppers lose their bodies
In the barely,
And so do their cousins- but their cousins
Are still beautiful
Beside the latchkeys of deer and foals
The wolves milk:
Reintroduced,
They are so careful now not to disturb anything:
They are so very careful:
The way sometimes intelligent fire steps
And gives its delicate promises to the fireworks
Held in the churches of a holiday we were all
Supposed to believe.