Church bells toll from season’s grief
Wringing autumn from relief
Peel away the brisk high breeze
Falling like a crimson leaf
Small town steeple, reaching high
Loftier than deadened skies
Grey to white as days pass by
And shingles in the courtyard lie
One last day the bells will toll
Signifying time that stole
Down the corridors of roles
That buildings play, like lives, half-whole
No one knows the final day
Ultimate words the bells may say
Or when the young no longer play
Beneath the steeple, white on grey?
Emily Karreman is a third-year student with majors in History and Russian and a minor in Spanish. EK1019612@wcupa.edu