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Light has exposed the landscape to its form.
Mood is rebuked of all its artifice.
Wind moves like winter through the naked trees.
I ask you for a leaf, but there is none.
Instead, you offer me a weather coat,
Gray as warm words reduced to whispering.
You tell me that November loves old bones.
Your frost accent is quite believable.
You paint a picture of our private sky.
The light falls faint upon my closing eyes.
Held close within a margin of rare words,
Stillness sings like a fragile, yellow bird.
Against the glass old memories ebb and flow.
A touch of verse becomes a touch of snow.
Our tiny world is slipping into space.
Only your precious hands hold it in place.
Copyright,2007, Sandra Fowler
Sandra Fowler
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