A Winter Day
I think you know that this is winter day.
This time last year woodsmoke blew us away.
Frost wrote the poem on tall panes of gray.
That was the morning of the yellow finch,
A dropp of sun upon a garden bench.
Light raised the bird's momentum, inch by inch.
You held your coffee cup up to the sky,
Promised as long as yellow birds could fly,
This anniversary would never die
I hold your words much prettier today.
Though where the bird went, who could ever say?
Memory locks all emptiness away.
Sandra Fowler's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (A Winter Day by Sandra Fowler )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(14 December 1895 – 18 November 1952)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
- RAJ VIKRAM
Harivansh Rai Bachchan
(27 November 1907 – 18 January 2003)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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- If, Rudyard Kipling
- Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep, Mary Elizabeth Frye
- As I Grew Older, Langston Hughes
- A Child's Christmas in Wales, Dylan Thomas
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