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Time over Tuesday, August almost gone,
So little left of summer to dream on.
I write a poem on the windowglass.
Quatrains waver like shadows in the grass.
One feels as if all life is lost in form.
Only sun's metaphor can keep us warm.
A lone, nostalgic whistle in the hills,
Tells me our train has come, the moment chills.
You turn my collar up against the sound.
Gray smoke configures good-bye on the ground.
The picture is too beautiful to lose
Your eyes tell me that Tuesday is old news.
Copyright,2007, Sandra Fowler
Sandra Fowler
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