Sometimes on lowering days I think of you
And watch the clouds create your Slavic face.
True poetry is ageless I am told,
But those who pen it are as frail as smoke.
The gray sound of an Appalachian bell
Rings in the rare gift of another year.
Your work has gone beyond the calendar,
A bright thought that exceeds all imagery.
Trees weave intricate patterns upon dusk.
My fingers trace the elegance of form.
The music of the landscape plays old verse.
It lights my little corner of the world.
Copyright,2009, Sandra Fowler