We have trodden
Autumn foliage,
Shattered bits of parchment,
Entombed in sorrow,
Raised in joy.

Along the weathered pathway
Of our ancient crippled lives,
Crushed leaves from boughs
That speak in holy tongues,
Intone anointed hopes.
Thousand-year-old words,
Singing spirit-letters,
Bud like myrrh in spring,
And sweeten a bitter harvest
Richer than we have sown.
  Copyright © 2006 by Robert E. Romanelli