Sandra Fowler Poems

To a poet of India for his warmth which can never be outdated
'With warmth for your severe winter', you said.
And every snowflake from my landscape fled.
I felt the sun from half a world away
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The lonely landscape whispers of itself.
Yesterday's shadow overtakes the field.
Lost in such thoughts we wonder what to do?
Bones are not strong enough to turn sunset.
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I dreamt we met in verses once again.
The mood was Lithuanian as yourself.
Our convesation was in pen and ink,
Outdated as a winter aeorgramme.
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The mood was bittersweet and lyrical.
The birds sang evening almost every day.
My dress was yellow as the paling sun.
Wind whispered of us to the Queen Anne's lace.
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Your face is left forever in the dusk,
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I watch your poem go down in the west
And know old friends are gold without a doubt.
I clasp your hand to wish you my godspeed.
Our epitaph is written in your eyes.
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There is a God of red leaves and of dying.
He traced dark landscapes on my window pane.
Spare and beautiful the sound of crying
Libations of black coffee, drops of rain.
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The sound of rain is winter on the roof.
It whispers us into fragility.
One tear dropp has the power to shatter glass.
The gray scent of the river fills the room.
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In dreams you walked through vast fields of wildflowers,
While river insects sang their autumn Psalms.
Time like a painted lady butterfly,
At last brought new life to your work worn frame.
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House corners sing a wind song to the blues.
The air randomly flows with shadow trees.
You come to me across the fading fields.
The passion in your tired face lights the dusk.
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