Poetry

by Richard M. Romney


Heritage

Carving rock or driving ox teams down a canyon
did not guarantee a front-row seat.
Many who quarried were not there
to see the angel, gilded, lifted to a spire,
or hear hosannas, shouted, saturate the air.
They had passed on.
But now, where granite towers preside
and banners flex and ripple,
the veil, drawn thin,
allows me near to sense their pride.