...I enter the woods - part Gretel, part Little Red.
Such a small patch of sun makes it to the ground
through the leaves. The tree trunks are all elbows and knees,
all arthritis and gripes. The Amish think it's wrong
to render nature. quilts abstracting each pattern's name
of tree, buggy, corn, horse, farm.
My uncle, not Amish but superstitious, holds his palm
to the camera in a Christmas photo. Before she died
my grandmother ripped up all the picturese of herself.
She liked a novel with mystery, magazines without nudity.
The boy was killed by a drunk driver. My Amish neighbors
forgive. I prefer seeing it all, the snot, the optical nerve, the liver
behind the belly's skin. I prefer a good fight,
a wailing of grief. The Farmer's Market sells apples
as red as tricycles. The dolls without faces
want it silent. The forest, all anger and yesterday.
newspapers blank as white cotton sheets.
the branches, the teeth, the awful vees...

(not my one, but I really want others to read this.
I found it on some poetry site, I don't remember the name,
I don't have the beginning. I won't post anything else in this blog.
I hope the author won't feel offended. One of the poems I like a lot)