Heritage

by Richard M. Romney

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.