Sequoia Grove

Rising from the rot of ancestral decay.
Moss draped sunlit columns
Encircle the sanctum within.

Silently I enter;
Into the ancient burial ground.
Only Indian summer awaits my despair.

Weeping I kneel;
Before the amputated altar stump.
Amongst the sepia sequoia cones.

Whispering I pray;
Beside the fungus stained wooden dead.
Beneath the eaglet's cradle overhead.

by Kathryne B. Roberts

Other poems of KATHRYNE B. ROBERTS (2)

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