To the Shrine of Our Birth

Ten of us grew, each a young alchemistBlending our laughter with toil into play;Drinking in awe from the sky's Milky Way;Holding in April, a violet-tryst.Seeing how pines reaching high could resistHurricane wrath and grow taller each day,Stately we grew to touch God; knelt to prayTalking with Him night and morning. Joy-kissed,Working in wheat field, we found He was there.Often at dawn we were standing tiptoeMounting a dream while the mysteries of earth

Challenged our daring--When lark-anthemed air

Calls, "It is April!" still ten of us go,

Silvered and tall, to the shrine of our birth.