Rain plays piano notes against the skin.
Light lets only a little solace in.
Is it enough that eloquence has been?
Dissonance is a moment's rusty tears.
The air is leaf thick with dusk's atmosphere.
Spare sound by defination is severe.
Like gray birds, shadows have life flighted day,
Leaving nothing but emptiness to play
That song by which we both are blown away.
Previously published, 'The World Poets Quarterly', China
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Comments about this poem (Spare Sound by Sandra Fowler )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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