Until The Fight Is Done Poem by Robert Ronnow

My confusion comes from too much doing. During the
      news
eating cheese and crackers, drinking wine, thinking the
      world
needs me.

Or the falling leaves, the days shorter but so much
      brighter.
How the cloud cover of the canopy has lifted to reveal
maybe God.

The longest continuous democracy may end in another
      theocracy.
A bunch of voodooists with their hocus pocus blessings
and understandings.

Bombs and poison. Grief. Chiseled, tearless face.
Chants gregorian. Her sad, clear, soulful missives from
the city.

Unbelievable acorn crop this year! Skate on them
like marbles. Last year was a maple year. The ash crop
significant, too.

But not the cherries. Or a single pear. Blackberries
held back too. Sure the towers were a violation, but
      they came to
hold community.

One stands not apart or alone but an individual within
his or her platoon. Committed to the mission and
      survival of
the platoon.

Fedex leaves a package. There is or is no anthrax
in it. It is our disappointment as Americans that the
      world cannot
be trusted.

Yes, New York is the enemy and brother of Kabul.
      How
does one reconcile those differing communities and be a
      non-
violent human?

With words. Wendell Berry's words. And service such
      as
the secretaries of state give, leaving when one's time and
      work
is done.

Staying in the diatonic. Agreeing first on rules of
      engagement.
Then engaging. Not stopping the fight or thought or song
      until the fight
is done.