Unrest in a house of glass

To the editor:

The American public, like a farm, needs a root system to survive.

Fences stand at attention. Neighbors talk in dark shades. A deep chill hangs in the night air.

Panic grips the union-- it could snap like a weathered oak tree. The word is civil war; it is whispered as the season turns from green to blood red.

At the southern border, an assault stirred in motion. A force passed inward straining enlightened homes and the realm's sound footing. To gaze upon this vision is to feel a loss in the fold: the nation’s front door blown off its anchored hinges, leaving a house yawning to the untamed wild, free from check.

Inside these frayed walls, roots of bitterness take hold. A baneful scorn treats our inheritance as a blight, not the garden of hope.

Furtive crowds walk upon the southern soil, testing a foundation--warped by time immemorial.

We have not heard the thunder, but the air is like a statue awaiting the impending storm. From America’s porches, citizens watch the horizon with disquiet— wondering if our house of glass can withstand the winds of social unrest.

Robert Sica