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.
Kathryne B. Roberts
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sequoia-grove/
