Fri. Jun 21st, 2024

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.

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