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.
One wonders how the moment fits the form.
Perhaps, the answer is too infinite.
An old boat whistle blows the landscape home.
Sky is the limit for such lonesomeness.
It has been awesome to touch souls with you.
The distance is a mood that never fades.
Our imagery is lowering with the day.
It rains in my world, Friend, the same as yours.
Copyright,2008, Sandra Fowler
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem