I stopped awhile to breathe among the sway
Of autumn’s rhythmic magic aspen dance
And lingered on to meet the fawn-like play
Of amber leaves that trend across the stance.
But morning whispers feathered through the trees
As if some breeze from faraway still said
That pious hymns pursued the Cherokees,
In wagons hauling covenants of dread.
I heard the trace of weep in winds that weaved
The golden fold of woods but thought their quire
Unstitched its leaves from codex script, which reaved
The chosen way that would not share in mire.
I paused to wear the wreath of leaves as crown
But saw the veins of grace had tumbled down.
Thomas H. Clutinger
Durango
